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THE 


r HE SIDE 

STOEY BOOK; 

CONTAIN ING 

a 

“WASTE NOT, WANT NOT,” 

“THE BRACELETS,” AND 
♦ ^ “LAZY LAWRENCE.” 


BY ^ ^ 

MARIA EDGEWORTH, 

flUTHOR OF “popular TALES,” “MORAL TALES,” ETC. ETC. 


Kllustratfans from ©rfjjiial 3!Dc,<yf snsr. 


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PHILADELPHIA: 

C. G. HENDERSON & CO., 

N. W. CORNER FIFTH AND ARCH STREETS. 
NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON & CO., 200 BROADWAY. 
18 54. 




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WASTE NOT, WANT NOT; 


OH 

TWO STRINGS TO YOUR BOW 


Mr. Gresham, a Bristol merchant, who had, 
by honourable industry and economy, accumulated 
a considerable fortune, retired from business to a 
new house, which he had built upon the Downs, 
near Clifton. Mr. Gresham, however, did not 
imagine that a new house alone could make him 
happy ; he did not propose to live in idleness and 
extravagance; for such a life would have been 
equally incompatible with his habits and his princi- 
ples. He was fond of children, and as he had no 
sons he determined to adopt one of his relations. 
He had two nephews, and he invited both of them 


4 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

to his house, that he might have an opportunity 
of judging of their dispositions, and of the habits 
which they had acquired. 

Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham’s nephews, 
were about ten years old. They had been edu- 
cated very differently. Hal was the son of the 
elder branch of the family ; his father was a gen- 
tleman, who spent rather more than he could 
afford ; and Hal, from the example of the servants 
in his father’s family, with whom he had passed 
the first years of his childhood, learned to waste 
more of every thing than he used. He had been 
told that “ gentlemen should be above being care- 
ful and saving and he had unfortunately imbibed 
a notion that extravagance is the sign of a gener- 
ous, and economy of an avaricious disposition. 

Benjamin,* on the contrary, had been taught 
habits of care and foresight ; his father had but a 
very small fortune, and was anxious that his son 
should early learn that economy insures indepen- 


^ Benjamin, so called from Dr. Benjamin Franklin. 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 5 

dence, and sometimes puts it in the power of those 
who are not very rich to be very generous. 

The morning after these two boys arrived at 
their uncle’s, they were eager to see all the rooms 
in the house. Mr. Gresham accompanied them, 
and attended to their remarks and exclamations. 

“ O ! what an excellent motto !” exclaimed Ben, 
when he read the following words, which were 
written in large characters, over the chimney- 
piece, in his uncle’s spacious kitchen : 

OTajstc Kot, 

“Waste not, want not!” repeated his cousin 
Hal, in rather a contemptuous tone ; “ I think it 
looks too stingy to servants ; and no gentleman’s 
servants, cooks especially, would like to have such 
a mean motto always staring them in the face.” 

Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin 
in the ways of cooks and gentleman’s servants, 
made no reply to these observations. 

Mr. Gresham was called away whilst his no- 


6 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

phews were looking at the other rooms in the 
house. Some time afterwards he heard their voices 
in the hall. 

“ Boys,” said he, “ what are you doing there !” 
“ Nothing, sir,” said Hal ; ‘‘ you were called away 
from us ; and we did not know which way to go.” 
“ And have you nothing to do ?” said Mr. Gresham. 
“ No, Sir ! nothing,” said Hal, in a careless tone, 
like one who was well content with the state of 
habitual idleness. “No, Sir, nothing!” replied 
Ben, in a voice of lamentation. “ Cojme,” said 
Mr. Gresham, “ if you have nothing to do, lads, 
will you unpack these two parcels for me ?” 

The two parcels were exactly alike, both of 
them well tied up with good whip-cord. Ben 
took his parcel to a table, and after breaking off 
the sealing-wax began carefully to examine the 
knot, and then to untie it. Hal stood still, exactly 
in the spot where the parcel was put into his hands, 
and tried first at one corner, and then at another, 
to pull the string off by force : ‘‘ I wish these peo- 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 7 

pie wouldn’t tie up their parcels so tight, as if 
they were never to be undone,” cried he, as he 
tugged at the cord ; and he pulled the knot closer 
instead of loosening it. 

“ Ben ! why, how did ye get yours undone, man ? 
— what’s in your parcel? I wonder what is in 
mine ! I wish I could get this string off ; I must 
cut it.” “ O, no,” said Ben, who had now undone 
the last knot of his parcel, and who drew out the 
length of string with exultation, “don’t cut it, 
Hal ; look what a nice cord this is, and yours is 
the same ; it ’s a pity to cut it. ‘ Waste not, want 
not P you know.” 

“Pooh!” said Hal, “what signifies a bit of 
packthread ?” “ It is whip-cord,” said Ben. 

“ Well, whip-cord ! what signifies a bit of whip- 
cord ? You can get a bit of whip-cord twice as 
long as that for two-pence ; and who cares for 
two-pence ! Not I, for one ! so here it goes,” cried 
Hal, drawing out his knife ; and he cut the cord 
precipitately in sundry places, 


8 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


Lads ! have you undone the parcels for me ?” 
said Mr. Gresham, opening the parlour door as he 
spoke. “ Yes, sir,” cried Hal ; and he dragged off 
his half cut, half entangled string — “ here ’s the 
parcel.” “And here’s my parcel, uncle; and 
liere ’s the string,” said Ben. “ You may keep 
the string for your pains,” said Mr. Gresham. 
“ Thank you, sir,” said Ben : “ what an excellent 
whip-cord it is !” 

“ And you, Hal,” continued Mr. Gresham, 
“ you may keep your string too if it will be of 
any use to you.” “ It will be of no use to me, 
thank you, sir,” said Hal. “ No, I am afraid not, 
if this be it,” said his uncle, taking up the jagged, 
loiotted remains of Hal’s cord. 

A few days after this, Mr. Gresham gave to 
each of his nephews a new top. 

“ But how ’s this ?” said Hal ; “ these tops have 
no strings ; what shall we do for strings ?” “ I 

have a string that will do very well for mine,” 
said Ben ; and he pulled out of his pocket the 



WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 9 

fine, long, smooth string which had tied up the 
parcel. With this he soon set up his top, which 
spun admirably well. “O, how I wish that I 
had but a string !” said Hal. “ What shall I do 
for a string ? I ’ll tell you what ; I can use the 
string that goes round my hat!” “But then,” 
said Ben, “what will you do for a hat-band?” 
“ I ’ll manage to do without one,” said Hal ; and 
he took the string off his hat for his top. It was 
soon worn through ; and he split his top by dri- 
ving the peg too tightly into it. His cousin Ben let 
him set up his the next day ; but Hal was not more 
fortunate or more careful when he meddled with 
other people’s things than when he managed his 
own. He had scarcely played with it an hour be- 
fore he split it, by driving in the peg too violently. 
Ben bore this misfortune with good humour. 
“ Come,” said he, “ it can’t be helped ; but give 
me the string, because that may still be of use 
for something else.” 

It happened some time afterwards that a lady 


10 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

who had been .intimately acquainted with Hal’s 
mother at Bath, that is to say, who had frequently 
met her at the card-table during the winter, now 
9 arrived at Clifton. She was informed by his mo- 
ther that Hal was at Mr. Gresham’s ; and her sons, 
who were friends of his, came to see him, and 
invited him to spend the next day with them. 

Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was 
always glad to go out to dine, because it gave 
him something to do, something to think of, or at 
least something to say. Besides this, he had been 
educated to think it was a fine thing to visit fine 
people ; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes (for that 
was the name of his mother’s acquaintance) was 
a very fine lady ; and her two sons intended to 
be very great gentlemen. 

He was in a prodigious hurry when these young 
gentlemen knocked at his uncle’s door the next 
day ; but just as he got to the hall door, little 
Patty called to him from the top of the stairs, and 


V ' 

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 11 

told him that he had dropped his pocket handker- 
chief. 

“ Pick it up, then, and bring it to me quick, 
can’t you, child ?” cried Hal, “ for Lady Di’s sons 
are waiting for me.” 

Little Patty did not know any thing about Lady 
Di’s sons ; but as she was very good-natured, and 
saw that her cousin Hal was, for some reason or 
other, in a desperate hurry, she ran down stairs as 
fast as she possibly could, tow^ards the landing- 
place, where the handkerchief lay ; but, alas ! be- 
fore she reached the handkerchief, she fell rolling 
down a whole flight of stairs, and when her fall was 
at last stopped by the landing-place, she did not 
cry, but she writhed, as if she was in great pain. 

“Where are you hurt, my love!” said Mr. 
Gresham, who came instantly on hearing the noise 
of some one falling down stairs. “ Where are 
you hurt, my dear ?” “ Here, papa,” said the 

little girl, touching her ankle, which she had de- 
cently covered with her gown ; “ I believe I am 


12 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


hurt here, but not much,” added she, trying to rise ; 
‘‘ only it hurts me when I move.” “ I ’ll carry 
you ; don’t move then,” said her father ; and he 
took her up in his arms. “ My shoe, I ’ve lost 
one of my shoes,” said she. 

Ben looked for it upon the stairs, and he found 
it sticking in a loop of whip-cord, which was en- 
tangled round one of the balusters. When this 
cord was drawn forth, it appeared that it was the 
very same jagged, entangled piece which Hal had 
pulled off his parcel. He had diverted himself 
with running up and down stairs, whipping the 
balusters with it, as he thought he could convert 
it to no better use; and, with his usual carelessness, 
he at last left it hanging just where he happened 
to throw it when the dinner-bell rang. Poor little 
Patty’s ankle was terribly sprained, and Hal re- 
proached himself for his folly, and would have 
reproached himself longer, perhaps, if Lady Di 
Sweepstakes’ sons had not hurried him away. 

In the evening Patty could not run about as 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 13 

slie used to do ; but she sat upon the sofa, and 
she said that she did not feel the pain of her ankle 
so much^ whilst Ben was so good as to play at 
jackstraws with her. 

“That ’s right, Ben ; never be ashamed of being 
good-natured to those who are younger and 
weaker than yourself,” said his uncle, smiling at 
seeing him produce his whip-cord to indulge his 
little cousin with a gaihe at her favourite cat’s 
cradle. “ I shall not think you one bit less manly 
because I see you playing at cat’s cradle with a 
little child of six years old.” 

Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle’s 
opinion ; for when he returned in the evening, and 
saw Ben playing with his little cousin, he could 
not help smiling contemptuously, and asked if he 
had been playing at cat’s cradle all night. In a 
heedless manner he made some inquiries after 
Patty’s sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell 
all the news he had heard at Lady Diana Sweep- 


14 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

stakes’ — news which he thought would make him 
appear a person of vast importance. 

“ Do you know, uncle — Do you know, Ben,” 
said he, “ there ’s to be the most famous doings 
that ever were heard of upon the Downs here, 
the first day of next month, which will be in a 
fortnight, thank my stars ! I wish the fortnight 
was over ; I shall think of nothing else, I know, 
till that happy day comes !” 

Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of Septem- 
ber was to be so much happier than any other 
day in the year. 

“ Why,” replied Hal, “ Lady Diana Sweep- 
stakes, you know, is a famms rider, and archer, 
and all that — ” “ Very likely,” said Mr. Gresham, 
soberly ; ‘‘ but what then ?” “ Dear uncle !” cried 

Hal, “ but you shall hear. There ’s to be a race 
upon the Downs, the first of September, and after 
the race, there ’s to be an archery meeting for the 
ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be one 
of them. And after the ladies have done shoot- 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 15 

ing — now, Ben, comes the best part of it ! — ^".ve 
boys are to have our turn, and Lady Di is to give a 
prize to the best marksman among us of a very 
handsome bow and arrow ! Do you know, I ’ve 
been practising already, and I’ll show you to- 
morrow, as soon as it comes home, the famous bow 
and arrow that Lady Diana has given me ; hut 
perhaps,” added he with a scornful laugh, “ you 
like a cat’s cradle better than a bow and arrow.” 

Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment ; 
but the next day, when Hal’s new bow and arrow 
came home, he convinced him that he knew how 
to use it well. “ Ben,” said his uncle, ‘‘ you seem 
to be a good marksman, though you have not 
boasted of yourself. I’ll give you a bow and 
arrow, and perhaps if you practise, you may make 
yourself an archer before the first of September f 
and in the meantime you will not wish the fort- 
night over, for you will have something to do.” 

“O, sir,” interrupted Hal, “but if you mean 
that Ben should put in for the prize, he must have 


16 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

a uniform.” “ Why must he ?” said Mr. Gresh- 
am. “Why, sir, because every body has — I 
mean every body that ’s any body ; and Lady Di- 
ana was talking about the uniform all dinner time, 
and it ’s settled all about it, except the buttons. 
The young Sweepstakes are to get theirs made 
first for patterns ; they are to be white, faced with 
green ; and they ’ll look very handsome, I ’m sure, 
and I shall write to mamma to-night, as Lady 
Diana bid me, about mine ; and I shall tell her to 
be sure to answer my letter, without fail, by return 
of the post : and then, if manuna makes no objec- 
tions, which I know she won’t, because she never 
thinks much about expense, and all that — then I 
shall bespeak my uniform, and get it made by the 
same tailor that makes for Lady Diana and the 
young Sweepstakes.” 

“ Mm-cy upon us !” said Mr. Gresham, who was 
almost stunned by the rapid vociferation with 
which this long speech about the uniform was 
pronounced. “I don’t pretend to understand 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 17 

these things,” added he, with an air of simplicity ; 
‘‘ but we will inquire, Ben, into the necessity of 
the case ; and if it is necessary, or if you think 
it necessary, that you shall have a uniform, why, 
I ’ll give you one.” 

“Ybw, uncle! Will you, indeed exclaimed 
Hal, with amazement painted in his countenance, 
“ Well, that ’s the last thing in the world I should 
have expected ! You are not at all the sort of 
person I should have thought would care about a 
uniform : and now I should have supposed you ’d 
have thought it extravagant to have a coat on 
purpose only for one day. And I ’m sure Lady 
Diana Sweepstakes thought as I do ; for when I 
told her of that motto over your kitchen chimney, 
WASTE NOT, WANT NOT, shc laughed, and said that 
I had better not talk to you about uniforms, and 
that my mother was the proper person to write to 
about my uniform ; but I ’ll tell Lady Diana, uncle, 
how good you are, and how much she was mis- 
taken.” “ Take care how you do that,” said Mr. 

B 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

Gresham; “for perhaps the lady was not mis- 
taken.” “ Nay, did not you say, just now, you 
would give poor Ben a uniform ?” “I said I would 
if he thought it necessary to have one.” “ O, I ’ll 
answer for it he ’ll think it necessary,” said Hal, 
laughing, “ because it is necessary.” “ Allow him 
at least to judge for himself,” said Mr. Gresham. 
“ My dear uncle, but I assure you,” said Hal, 
earnestly, “ there ’s no judging about the matter, 
because, really, upon my word. Lady Diana said 
distinctly that her sons were to have uniforms, 
white, faced with green, and a green and white 
cockade in their hats.” “ May be so,” said Mr. 
Gresham, still with the same look of calm sim- 
plicity. “ Put on your hats, boys, and come with 
me. I know a gentleman whose sons are to be 
at this archery meeting ; and we will inquire into 
all the particulars from him. Then after «ve have 
seen him, (it is not eleven o’clock yet,) we shall 
have time enough to walk on to Bristol, and 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT, 19 ‘ 

choose the cloth for Ben’s uniform, if it is neces- 
sary.” 

“ I cannot tell what to make of all he says,” 
whispered Hal, as he reached down his hat ; “ do 
you think, Ben, he means to give you this uniform, 
or not ?” “ I think,” said Ben, ‘‘ that he means 
to give me one, if it is necessary, or, as he said, if I 
think it necessary.” “ And that to be sure you will ; 
won’t you ? or else you ’ll be a very great fool, 1 
know, after all I ’ve told you. How can any one 
in the world know so much about the matter as I, 
who have dined with Lady Diana Sweepstakes but 
yesterday, and heard all about it, from beginning 
to end ? and as for this gentleman that we are 
going to, I ’m sure, if he knows any thing about 
the matter, he ’ll say exactly the same as I do.” 
“We shall hear,” said Ben, with a degree of com- 
posure which Hal could by no means comprehend, 
when a uniform was in question. 

The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called 
liad tliree sons, who were all to be at this archery 


20 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

meeting ; and they unanimously assured him, in 
the presence of Hal and Ben, that they had never 
thought of buying uniforms for this grand occa- 
sion, and that, amongst the number of their ac- 
quaintance, they knew of but three boys whose 
friends intended to be at such an unnecessary ex- 
pense. Hal stood amazed. ‘‘ Such are the 
varieties of opinion upon all the grand affairs of 
^ life,” said Mr. Gresham, looking at his nephews. 
“ What amongst one set of people you hear as- 
serted to be absolutely necessary, you will hear, 
from another set of people, is quite unnecessary. 
All that can be done, my dear boys, in these dif- 
ficult cases, is to judge for ourselves, which 
opinions, and which people, are the most reason- 
able.” 

Hal, who had been more accustomed to think 
of what was fashionable than of what was rea- 
sonable, without at all considering the good sense 
of what his uncle said to him, replied, with child- 
ish petulance, “ Indeed, sir, I don’t know what 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 21 

\ other people think; I only know what Lady 
Diana Sweepstakes said.” 

The name of Lady Diana Sweepstakes Hal 
thought must impress all present with respect. 
He was highly astonished, when, as he looked 
round, he saw a smile of contempt upon every 
one’s countenance ; and he was yet further be- 
wildered when he heard her spoken of as a very 
silly, extravagant, ridiculous woman, whose opin- 
ion no prudent person would ask upon any subject, 
and whose example was to be shunned, instead 
of being imitated. 

“ Ay, my dear Hal,” said his uncle, smiling at 
his look of amazement, “ these are some of the 
things that young people must learn from ex- 
perience. All the world do not agree in opinion 
about characters ; you will hear the same person 
admired in one company and blamed in another ; 
so that we must still come round to the same 
point. Judge for yourself'^ 

Hal’s thoughts were, however, at present too 


22 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

full of the uniform to allow his judgment to act 
with perfect impartiality. As soon as their visit 
was over, and all the time they walked down the 
hill from Prince’s Buildings towards Bristol, he 
continued to repeat nearly the same arguments 
which he had formerly used respecting necessity, 
the uniform, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes. 

1\To all this Mr. Gresham made no reply ; and 
longer had the young gentleman expatiated upon 
the subject, which had so strongly seized upon his 
imagination, had not his senses been forcibly as- 
sailed at this instant by the delicious odours and 
tempting sight of certain cakes and jellies in a 
pastry-cook’s shop. 

“ O, uncle,” said he, as he was going to turn the 
jC^orner to pursue the road to Bristol, “look at 
those jellies,” pointing to a confectioner’s shop. 
“ 1 must buy some of those good things ; for I 
have got some half-pence in my pocket.” “ Your 
having half-pence in your pocket is an excellent 
reason for eating,” said Mr. Gresham, smiling. 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 23 

“But I really am hungry,” said Hal; “you 
know, uncle, it is a good while since breakfast.” 

His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews 
act without restraint, that he might judge of their 
characters, bid them do as they pleased. 

“ Come then, Ben, if you ’ve any half-pence in 
}our pocket.” “I am not hungry,” said Ben. 

I suppose that means that you Ve no half-pence,” 
said Hal, laughing, with a look of superiority, 
which he had been taught to think the rich might 
assume towards those who were convicted either 
of poverty or economy. 

“Waste not, want not,” said Ben to himself. 
Contrary to his cousin’s surmise, he happened to 
have two-penny worth of half-pence actually in 
his pocket. 

At the very moment Hal stepped into the pas- 
try-cook’s shop, a poor industrious man, with a 
wooden leg, who usually sweeps the dirty corner 
of the walk which turns at this spot to the Wells, 
held his hat to Ben, who, after glancing his eye at 


21 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

the petitioner’s well-worn broom, instantly pro 
duced his two-pence. 

“I wish I had more half-pence for you, my 
good man,” said he ; “ but I ’ve only two-pence.” 

Hal came out of Mr. Millar’s, the confectioner’s 
shop, with a hat full of cakes in his hand. 

Mr. Millar’s dog was sitting on the flags before 
the door ; and he looked up with a wistful, beg- 
ging eye at Hal, who was eating a queen-cake. 

Hal, who was wasteful even in his good nature, 
threw a whole queen-cake to the dog, who swal- 
lowed it for a single mouthful. 

“ There goes two-pence in the form of a queen- 
cake,” said Mr. Gresham. 

Hal next offered some of his cakes to his uncle 
and cousin ; but they thanked him, and refused to 
eat any, because, they said, they were not hungry ; 
so he ate and ate, as he walked along, till at last 
he stopped, and said, “ This bun tastes so bad 
after the queen-cakes, I can ’t bear it !” and he 
was going to fling it from him into the river. 


0 



4 








WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


25 


“ O, it is a pity to waste that good bun ! wo 
may be glad of it yet,” said Ben ; “ give it to me 
rather than to throw it away.” “ Why, I thought 
you said you were not hungry,” said Hal. “ True, 
I am not hungry now, but that is no reason why 
I should never be hungry again.” “Well, there 
is the cake for you ; take it, for it has made me 
sick ; and I don’t care what becomes of it.” 

(Ben folded the refused bit of his cousin’s bun 
in a piece of paper, and put it into his pocket. 

“ I ’m beginning to be exceedingly tired, or sick, 
or something,” said Hal, “ and as there is a stand 
of coaches somewhere hereabouts, had we not 
better take a coach, instead of walking all the 
way to Bristol ?” 

“ For a stout archer,” said Mr. Gresham, “ you 
are more easily tired than one might have ex- 
pected. However, with all my heart, let us take 
a coach; for Ben asked me to show him the 
cathedral yesterday ; and I believe I should find 


26 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


it rather too much for me to walk so far, though 
I am not sick with eating good things.” 

“ The Cathedral /” said Hal, after he had been 
seated in the coach about a quarter of an hour, 
and had somewhat recovered from his sickness — 
“the cathedral! Why, are we only goings to 
Bristol to see the cathedral ? I thought we came 
out to see about a uniform.” 

There was a dulness and melancholy kind of 
stupidity in Hal’s countenance, as he pronounced 
these words, like one wakening from a dream, 
which made both his uncle and cousin burst out 
a laughing. 

“ Why,” said Hal, who was now piqued, 
“ I ’m sure you did say, uncle, you would go to 
Mr. ’s to choose the cloth for the uniform.” 

/“Very true; and so I will,” said Mr. Gresham; 
“ but we need not make a whole morning’s work, 
need we, of looking at a piece of cloth ? Cannot 
we see a uniform and a cathedral both in one 
morning ? ” 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 27 

They went first to the cathedral. Hal’s head 
was too full of the uniform to take any notice of 
the painted window, which immediately caught 
Ben’s unembarrassed attention. He looked at 
the large stained figures on the gothic window ; 
and he observed their coloured shadows on the 
floor and walls. 

Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was ea- 
ger on all subjects to gain information, took this 
opportunity of telling him several things about 
the lost art of painting on glass, gothic arches, 
&c., which Hal thought extremely tiresome. 

“ Come ! come ! we shall be late indeed,” said 
Hal ; “ surely you ’ve looked long enough, Ben, at 
this blue and red window.” “ I ’m only thinking 
about these coloured shadows,” said Ben. I can 
show you, when we go home, Ben,” said his 
uncle, “an entertaining paper upon such sha- 
dows.”* 

* Vide Priestley’s History of Vision, chapter on Coloured Sha- 
dows. 


28 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT 


“ Hark !” cried Ben ; “ did you hear that noise ?” 

They all listened ; and they heard a bird sing- 
ing in the cathedral. 

“ It ’s our old robin, sir,” said the lad who had 
opened the cathedral door for them. “ Yes,” said 
Mr. Gresham, ‘‘ there he is, boys — ^look — ^perched 
upon the organ. He oftens sits there, and sings, 
whilst the organ is playing.” “ And,” continued 
the lad who showed the cathedral, “ he has lived 
here these many winters f they say he is fifteen 
years old ; and he is so tame, poor fellow, that if 
I had a bit of bread he ’d come down and feed in 
my hand. “ I Ve a bit of bun here,” cried Ben, 
joyfully producing the remains of the bun which 
Hal but an hour before would have thrown away 
“Pray let us see the poor robin eat out of your 
hand.” 

The lad crumbled the bun, and cahed to tn^ 
robin, who fluttered and chirped, and seemed 
rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he 


* This is true. 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


29 


did not come down from his pinnacle on the 
organ. 

‘‘He is afraid of said Ben; “he is not 
used to eat before strangers, I suppose.” “ Ah 
no, sir,” said the young man with a deep sigh, 
“ that is not the thing; he is used enough to eat 
before company. Time was he’d have come 
down for me, before ever so many fine folks, and 
have eat his crumbs out of my hand, at my first 
call. But, poor fellow, it’s not his fault now; 
he does not know me now, sir, since my accident, 
because of this great black patch.” 

The young man put his hand to his right eye> 
which was covered with a huge black patch. 

Ben asked what accident he meant ; and the lad 
told him that, but a few weeks ago, he had lost 
the sight of his eye by the stroke of a stone, 
which reached him as he was passing under the 
rocks of Clifton, unluckily, when the workmen 
were blasting. 

“ 1 don’t mind so much for myself, sir,” said 


30 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

the lad ; “ but 1 can’t work so well now, as I used 
to do before my accident, for my old mother, who 
has had a stroke of the palsy ; and I ’ve a many 
little brothers and sisters, not well able yet to get 
their owm livelihood, though they may be as willing 
as willing can be.” “ Where does your mother 
live ?” said Mr. Gresham. “ Hard by, sir, just 
close to the church here. It was her that always 
had the showing of it to strangers, till she lost 
the use of her poor hmbs.” “ Shall we, may we, 
uncle, go that way ? This is the house ; is not 
it ? ” said Ben, when they went out of the ca- 
thedral. 

They went into the house. It was rather a 
hovel than a house ; but poor as it was, it was as 
neat as misery could make it. 

The old woman was sitting up in her wretched 
bed, winding worsted; four meager, ill-clothed, 
pale children, were all busy, some of them sticking 
pins in paper for the pinmaker, and others sorting 
rags for the papermaker. 


31 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

What a horrid place it is,” said Hal, sighing. 
“ I did not Imow there were such shocking places 
in the world. I ’ve often seen terrible-looking tum- 
ble-down places, as we drove through the town in 
mamma’s carriage ; but then I did not know who 
lived in them ; and I never saw the inside of any 
of them. ,It is very dreadful, indeed, to think 
that people are forced to live in this way. I wish 
mamma would send me some more pocket- 
money, that I might do something for them. 1 
had half-a-crown ; but,” continued he, feeling in 
his pockets, “ I ’m afraid I spent the last shilling 
of it this morning, upon those cakes that made 
me sick. I wish I had my shilling now ; I ’d give 
it to these poor people, 

Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as 
sorry as his talkative cousin for all these poor 
people. But there w^as some difference between 
the sorrow’ of these two boys. 

Hal, after he was again seated in the hackney- 
coach, and had rattled through the busy streets 


32 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

(pf Bristol for a few minutes, quite forgot the spec- 
tacle of misery which he had seen ; and the gay 
shops in Wine street, and the idea of his green 
and white uniform, wholly occupied his imagina- 
tion. 

“ Now for our uniforms,” cried he, as he 
jumped eagerly out of the coach, when his uncle 
stopped at the woollen-draper’s door. 

“ Uncle,” said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham be- 
fore he got out of the carriage, “ I don’t think a 
uniform is at all necessary for me. I’m very 
much obliged to you ; but I would rather not have 
(one. I have a very good coat ; and I think it 
would be waste.” “Well, let me get out of the 
carriage, and we will see about it,” said Mr. 
Gresham; “perhaps the sight of the beautiful 
green and white cloth, and the epaulettes (have 
you ever considered the epaulettes?) may, tempt 
you to change your mind.” “ O no,” said Ben, 
laughing, “ I shall not change my mind.” 

The green cloth, and the white cloth, and the 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


33 


epaulettes, were produced, to Hal’s infinite satis- 
faction. His uncle took up a pen, and calculated 
for a few minutes ; then, showing the back of the 
letter, upon which he was writing, to his nephews, 
“ Cast up these sums, boys,” said he, “ and tell me 
miether I am right.” 

“ Ben, do you do it,” said Hal, a little embar- 
rassed ; “ I am not quick at figures.” 

Ben was^ and he went over his uncle’s calcula- 
tion very expeditiously. 

“ It is right, is it ?” said Mr. Gresham. “ Yes, 
sir, quite right.” “Then, by this calculation, I 
find I could for less than half the money your 
uniforms would cost purchase for each of you 
boys a warm great coat, which you will want, I 
have a notion, this winter upon the Downs.” “ O, 
sir,” said Hal with an alarmed look ; “ but it is 
not winter yet ; it is not cold weather yet. We 
shan’t want great coats “ Don’t you remem- 

ber how cold we were, Hal, the day before yes- 
terday, in that sharp wind, when we were fly- 


c 


34 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


ing our kites upon the Downs ? and winter will 
come yet — I am sure, I should like to have a 
good warm great coat very much.” 

Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse ; 
and he placed three of them before Hal, and three 
before Ben. 

“ Young gentlemen,” said he, “ I believe your 
uniforms will come to about three guineas apiece. 
Now I will lay out this money for you just as you 
please, Hal, what say you ?” “ Why, sir,” said 

Hal, “ a great coat is a good thing, to be sure ; and 
then, after the great coat, as you said it would 
only cost half as much as the uniform, there 
would be some money to spare, would not there ?” 
“Yes, my dear, about five-and-twenty shilhngs.”^ 
“ Five-and-twenty shillings ! I could buy and do 
a great many things, to be sure, with five-and- 
twenty shillings ; but then, the thing is, I must go 
without the uniform, if I have the great coat.” 
“Certainly,” said his uncle. “Ah!” said Hal, 
sighing, as he looked at the epaulettes, “ uncle, if 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


35 


you would not be displeased, if I choose the uni- 
form — ” “ I shall not be displeased at your choos- 
ing whatever you like best,” said Mr. Gresham. 
“ Well, then, thank you, sir ; I think I had better 
have the uniform ; because, if I have not the uni- 
tbrm now directly, it will be of no use to me, as 
the archery meeting is the week after next, you 
^now ; and as to the great coat, perhaps, between 
this time and the very cold weather, which, per- 
haps, won’t be till Christmas, papa will buy a 
great coat for me ; and I ’ll ask mamma to give 
me some pocket-money to give away, and she 
will, perhaps.” 

To all this conclusive, conditional reasoning, 
which depended upon perhaps^ three times re- 
peated, Mr. Gresham made no reply ; but he im- 
mediately bought the uniform for Hal, and desired 
that it should be sent to Lady Diana Sweepstakes’ 
sons’ tailor, to be made up. The measure of 
Hal’s happiness was now complete. 

“ And how am I to lay out the three guineas 


36 WASTE NOT, WANTNOT. 

for you, Ben ?” said Mr. Gresham. “ Speak — 
what do you wish for first ?” ‘‘A great coat, uncle, 
if you please.” 

Mr. Gresham bought the coat ; and, after it 
was paid for, five-and-twenty shillings of Ben’s 
three guineas remained. 

‘‘ What next, my boy ?” said his uncle. “ Ar- 
rows, uncle, if you please ? three arrows.” My ^ 
dear, I promised you a bow and arrows.” “ No, 
uncle, you said a bow.” “Well, I meant a bow 
and arrows. I ’m glad you are so exact, how- 
ever. It is better to claim less than more than 
what is promised. The three arrows you shall 
have. But go on ; — ^how shall 1 dispose of these 
five-and-twenty shillings for you ?” “ In clothes, 

if you will be so good, uncle, for that poor boy 
who has got the great black patch on his eye.” 

“ I always believed,” said Mr. Gresham, shak- 
ing hands with Ben, “ that economy and gener- 
osity were the best friends, instead of being ene- 
mies, as some silly, extravagant people would have 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 37 

US think them. Choose the poor blind boys’ 
coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it. There ’s 
no occasion for my praising you about the mat- 
ter : your best reward is in your own mind, child ; 
and you want no other, or I ’m mistaken. Now 
jump into the coach, boys, and let ’s be off. We 
shall be late, I ’m afraid,” continued he, as the 
'coach drove on ; “ but I must let you stop, Ben, 
with your goods, at the poor boy’s door.” 

When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham 
opened the coach door, and Ben jumped out with 
his parcel under his arm. 

“ Stay, stay ! You must take me with you,” 
said his pleased uncle. “I like to see people 
made happy as well as you do.” 

“ And so do I too !” said Hal ; “ let me come 
with you. I almost wish my uniform was not 
gone to the tailor’s, so I do.” 

And when he saw the look of delight and gra- 
titude with which the poor boy received the 
clothes which Ben gave him, and when he heard 


38 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


the mother and children thank him, Hal sighed^ 
and said, “Well, I hope mamma will give me 
some more pocket-money soon.” 

Upon his return home, however, the sight of 
the famous bow and arrow, which Lady Diana 
Sweepstakes had sent him, recalled to his imagi- 
nation all the joys of his green and white uniform, 
and he no longer wished that it had not been sent • 
to the tailor’s.''\^ 

“ But I do not understand, cousin Hal,” said 
little Patty, “ why you call this bow a famous bow 
You say famous very often ; and I don’t know 
exactly what it means— a famous uniform— ^/amows 
doings — I remember you said there was to be 
famous doings, the first of September, upon the 
Downs — ^What does famous mean ?” 

“ O, famous means — ^Now don’t you know 

what famous means? — It means — It is a wore 
that people say — It is the fashion to say it — It 
means — it means /amows.” 

Patty laughed, and said, “ This does not ex- 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 39 

plain it to me.” “ No,” said Hal, “ nor can it be 
explained. If you don’t understand it, that ’s not 
my fault ; everybody but little children, I suppose, 
understands it; but there’s no explaining those 
sort of words, if you don’t take them at once. 
There’s to be famous doings upon the Downs, 
the first of September ; that is, grand, fine. In 
short, what does it signify talking any longer, 
Patty, about the matter ? Give me my bow ; for I 
must go out upon the Downs and practise.” 

Ben accompanied him with the bow and the 
three arrows which his uncle had now given to him; 
and every day these two boys went out upon the 
Downs, and practised shooting with indefatigable 
perseverance. Where equal pains are taken, suc- 
cess is usually found to be pretty nearly equal. 
Our two archers, by constant practise, became 
expert marksmen; and before the day of trial, 
they were so exactly matched in point of dex- 
terity, that it was scarcely possible'to decide which 
was superior. 


40 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

The long-expected first of September at length 
arrived. “ What sort of a day is it ?” was the first 
question that was asked by Hal and Ben, the mo- 
ment that they awakened. 

The sun shone bright ! but there was a sharp 
and high wind. 

“ Ha !” said Ben, “ I shall be glad of my good 
great coat to-day ; for I ’ve a notion it will be 
rather cold upon the Downs, especially when we 
are standing still, as we must whilst the people 
are shooting.” 

‘‘ O, never mind ! I don’t think I shall feel cold 
at all,” said Hal, as he dressed himself in his new 
green and white uniforn ; and he viewed himself 
with much complacency. 

“Good morning to you, uncle; how do you 
do ?” said he in a voice of exultation, when he 
entered the breakfast-room. 

“How do you do?” seemed rather to mean. 
How do you like me in my uniform ? 

And his uncle’s coo^ “Very well, I thank you, 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


41 


Hal,” disappointed him, as it seemed only to say. 
Your uniform makes no difference in my opinion 
of you. 

Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast 
much as usual, and talked of the pleasures of 
walking with her father to the Downs, and of all 
the little things which interested her, so that Hafs 
epaulettes were not the principal object of any 
one’s imagination but his own. 

‘‘ Papa,” said Patty, “ as we go up the hill where • 
there is so much red mud, I must take care to 
pick my way nicely ; and I must hold up my frock, 
as you desired me ; and perhaps you will be so 
good, if I am not troublesome, as to lift me over the 
very bad place where there are no stepping-stones. 
My ankle is entirely well, and I ’m glad of that, 
or else I should not be able to walk as far as the 
Downs. How good you were to me, Ben, when 
I was in pain, the day I sprained my ankle ; you 
played at jackstraws, and at cat’s cradle, with me 
— O, that puts me in mind — Here are your gloves, 


42 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


which I asked you that night to let me mend. 
I ’ve been a great while about them, but are not 
they very neatly mended, papa ? — ^look at the 
sewing.” “ I am not a very good judge of sewing, 
my dear little girl,” said Mr. Gresham, examining 
the work with a close and scrupulous eye ; “ but, in 
my opinion, here is one stitch that is rather too 
long ; the white teeth are not quite even.” ‘‘ O, 
papa, I ’ll take out that long tooth in a minute,” 
said Patty, laughing. “ I did not think that you 
would have observed it so soon.” 

“ I would not have you trust to my blindness,” 
said her father, stroking her head fondly : “ I ob- 
serve every thing. I observe, for instance, that 
you are a grateful little girl, and that you are 
glad to be of use to those who have been kind to 
you ; and for this I forgive you the long stitch.” 
“ But it ’s out, it ’s out, papa,” said Patty ; ‘‘ and 
the next time your gloves want mending, Ben, I ’ll 
mend them better.” ‘‘They are very nice, I 
think,” said Ben, drawing them on ; “ and I am 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 43 

much obliged to you. I was just wishing I had 
a pair of gloves to keep my fingers warm to-day, 
for I never can shoot well when my hands are 
numbed. Look, Hal — ^you know how ragged 
these gloves were ; you said they were good for 
nothing but to throw away; now look, there’s 
not a hole in them,” said he, spreading his fingers. 

‘‘Now, is it not very extraordinary,” said Hal 
to himself, “ that they should go on so long talk- 
ing about an old pair of gloves, without scarcely 
saying a word about my new uniform? Well, 
the young Sweepstakes and Lady Diana will talk 
enough about it ; that ’s one comfort.” 

“ Is not if time to think of setting out, sir ?” 
said Hal to his uncle. “ The company, you know, 
are to meet at the Ostrich, at twelve, and. the race 
to begin at one, and Lady Diana’s horses, I know, 
were ordered to be at the door at ten.” 

Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted the 
hurrying young gentleman in his calculations — 
“There’s a poor lad, sir, below, with a great 


44 WASTE NOT, WANT NO T. 

black patch on his right eye, who is come from 
Bristol, and wants to speak ^“rord with the young 
gentlemen, if you please. I told him they were 
just going out with you, but he says he won’t de- 
tain them above half a minute.” ‘‘ Show him up, 
show him up,” said Mr. Gresham. “ But I sup- 
pose,” said Hal, with a sigh, “ that Stephen mis- 
took when he said the young gentlemen ; he only 
wants to see Ben, I dare say ; I ’m sure he has 
no reason to want to see me.” 

“ Here he comes — O, Bei$, he is dressed in the 
new coat you gave him,” whispered Hal, who was 
really a good-natured boy, though extravagant. 
“ How much better he looks than ’he did in the 
ragged coat ! Ah ! he looked at you first, Ben ! 
— and well he may !” 

The boy bowed, without any cringing civility, 
but with an open, decent freedom in his manner, 
which expressed that he had been obliged, but that 
he knew his young benefactor was not thinking 


WASTE N O r, WANT NOT. 45 

of the obligation. He made as little distinction 
as possible between ^’s bows to the two cousins. 

“ As I was sent with a message, by the clerk 
of our parish, to Redland chapel, out on the 
Downs, to-day, sir,” said he to Mr. Gresham, 
‘‘ knowing your house lay in my way, my mother, 
sir, bid me call and make bold to offer the young 
gentlemen two little worsted balls that she had 
worked for them,” continued the lad, pulling out 
of his pocket two worsted balls worked in green 
and orange-coloured ^tripes : ‘‘ they are but poor 
things, sir, she bid me say, to look at, but, con- 
sidering she has but one hand to work with, and 
that her left hand, you’ll not despise ’em, we 
hopes.” He held the balls to Ben and Hal. — 
“ They are both alike, gentlemen,” said he ; “ if 
you ’ll be pleased to take ’em, they ’re better than 
they look, for they bound higher than your head. 
I cut the cork round for the inside myself, which 
was all I could do.” ‘‘ They are nice balls indeed ; 
we are much obliged to you,” said the boys as 


46 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


they received them ; and they proved them im- 
m.ediately. The balls struck the floor with a 
delightful sound, and rebounded higher than Mr. 
Gresham’s head. Little Patty clapped her hands 
joyfully — but now a thundering double rap at the 
door was heard. 

“ The Master Sweepstakes, sir,” said Stephen, 
“ are come for Master Hal. They say that all 
the young gentlemen who have archery uniforms 
are to walk together, in a body, I think they say, 
sir; and they are to parade along the Well- walk, 
they desire me to say, sir, with a drum and fife, 
and so up the hill by Prince’s Place, and all to go 
upon the Downs together, to the place of meeting. 
I am not sure I ’m right, sir, for both the young 
gentlemen spoke at once, and the wind is very 
high at the street door, so that I could not well 
make out all they said ; but I believe this is the 
sense of it.” “ Yes, yes,” said Hal, eagerly, ‘‘ it ’s 
all right ; I know that is just what was settled the 
day I dined at Lady Diana’s : and Lady Diana, 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


47 


and a great party of gentlemen, are to ride — ” 
‘‘Well, that is nothing to the purpose,” inter- 
rupted Mr. Gresham. “ Don’t keep the Master 
Sweepstakes waiting ; decide — do you choose to 
go with them, or with us ?” “ Sir, uncle, sir, you 

know, since all the uniforms agreed to go to- 
gether — ” “ Off with you, then, Mr. Uniform, if 

you mean to go,” said Mr. Gresham. 

Hal ran down stairs in such a hurry that he 
forgot his bow and arrows. Ben discovered this, 
when he went to fetch his own ; and the lad from 
Bristol, who had been ordered by Mr. Gresham 
to eat his breakfast before he proceeded to Red- 
land chapel, heard Ben talking about his cousin’s 
bow and arrows. 

“ I know,” said Ben, “ he will be sorry not to 
have his bow with him, because here are the 
green knots tied to it, to match his cockade ; and 
he said that the boys were all to carry their bows, 
as part of the show.” “ If you ’ll give me leave, 
sir,” said the poor Bristol lad, “ I shall have plenty 


48 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

of time; and I’ll run down to the Well- walk 
after the young gentleman, and take him his bow 
and arrows.” “ Will you ? 1 shall be much obliged 
to you,” said Ben ; and away went the boy with 
the bow that was ornamented with green ribands. 

The public walk leading to the Wells was full 
of company. The windows of all the houses in 
St. Vincent’s parade were crowded with well- 
dressed ladies, who were looking out in expec- 
tation of the archery procession. Parties of 
gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of 
spectators, were seen moving backwards and for- 
wards, under the rocks, on the opposite side of 
the water. A barge, with coloured streamers 
flying, was waiting to take up a party, who were 
going upon the water. The bargemen rested up 
their oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity 
upon the busy scene that appeared upon the pub- 
lic walk. 

The archers and archeresses were now drawn 
up on the flags under the semicircular piazza just 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


49 


before Mrs. Yearsley’s library. A little band of 
children, who had been mustered by Lady Diana 
Sweepstakes’ spirited exertions^ closed the proces- 
sion. They were now all in readiness. The 
drummer only waited for her ladyship’s signal • 
and the archers’ corps* only waited for her lady- 
ship’s word of command to march. 

“ Where are your bow and arrows, my little 
man ?” said her ladyship to Hal, as she reviewed 
her Lilliputian regiment. “You can’t march, 
man, without your arms !” 

Hal had despatched a messenger for his for- 
gotten bow, but the messenger returned not ; he 
looked from side to side in great distress. “ O, 
there ’s my bow coming, I declare !” cried he ; 
“ look, I see the bow and the ribands ; look now 
between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the 
Hotwell-walk ; it is coming !” “ But you ’ve kept 

us all waiting a confounded time,” said his impa- 
tient friend. “ It is that good-natured poor fellow 


n 


* Pronounced core. 


50 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


from Bristol, I protest, that has brought it to me. 
I ’m sure I don’t deserve it from him,” said Hal 
to himself, when he saw the lad with the black 
patch on his eye running, quite out of breath, 
towards him with his bow and arrows. 

“ Fall back, my good friend, fall back,” said the 
military lady, as soon as he had delivered the bow 
to Hal ; 1 mean stand out of the way, for your 

great patch cuts no figure amongst us. Don’t 
follow so close, now, as if you belonged to us, 
pray.” 

The poor boy had no ambition to partake the 
triumph ; he fell hacTc^ as soon as he understood 
the meaning of the lady’s words. The drum beat, 
the fife played, the archers marched, the specta 
tors admired. Hal stepped proudly and felt as if 
the eyes of the whole universe were upon his 
epaulettes, or upon the facings of his uniform ; 
whilst all the time he was considered only as part 
of a show. The walk appeared much shorter 
than usual, and he was extremely sorry that Lady 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 5 \ 

Diana, when they were half way up the hill lead- 
ing to Prince’s Place, mounted her horse, because 
the road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and 
ladies who accompanied her, followed her example. 
‘‘ We can leave the children to walk, you know,” 
said she to the gentleman who helped her to 
mount her horse. “ I must call to some of them 
though, and leave orders where they are to^om.” 

She beckoned; and Hal, who was foremost, 
and proud to show his alacrity, ran on to receive 
her ladyship’s orders. Now, as we have before 
observed, it was a sharp and windy day; and 
though Lady Diana Sweepstakes was actually 
speaking to him, and looking at him, he could not 
prevent his nose from wanting to be blowed ; he 
pulled out his handkerchief, and out rolled the 
new ball, which had been given to him just before 
he left home, and which, according to his usual 
careless habits, he had stuffed into his pocket in 
a hurry. ‘‘ O, my new ball !” cried he, as he ran 
after it. As he stooped to pick it up, he let 


52 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


go his hat, which he had hitherto held on with 
anxious care ; for the hat, though it had a fine 
green and white cockade, had no band or string 
round it. The string, as we may recollect, our 
wasteful hero had used in spinning his top. The 
hat was too large for his head without this band ; 
a sudden gust of wind blew it off ; Lady Diana’s 
horse started, and reared. She was a famous 
horsewoman, and sat him to the admiration of 
all beholders ; but there was a puddle of red clay 
and water in this spot, and her ladyship’s uniform^ 
habit was a sufferer by the accident. 

“ Careless brat !” said she ; “ why can’t he keep 
his hat upon his head ?” 

In the meantime the wind blew the hat down 
the hill, and Hal ran after it, amidst the laughter 
of his kind friends, the young Sweepstakes, and 
the rest of the little regiment. The hat was 
lodged at length upon a bank. Hal pursued it 
he thought this bank was hard, but, alas ! the mo- 
ment he set his foot upon it, the foot sank. He 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 53 

tried to draw it back, his other foot slipped, and 
he fell prostrate, in his green and white uniform, 
into the treacherous bed of red mud. His com- 
panions, who had halted upon the top of the hill, 
stood laughing spectators of his misfortune. 

It happened that the poor boy with the black 
patch upon his eye, who had been ordered by 
Lady Diana to hack!!'^ and to “ keep at a 

distance^'^ was now coming up the hill ; and the 
moment he saw our fallen hero, he hastened to 
his assistance. He dragged poor Hal, who was 
a deplorable spectacle, out of the red mud ; the 
obliging mistress of a lodging-house, as soon as 
she understood that the young gentleman was ne- 
phew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had formerly 
let her house, received Hal, covered as he was 
with dirt. 

The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresh- 
am’s for clean stockings and shoes for Hal. He 
was unwilling to give up his uniform ; it was rub- 
bed and rubbed, and a spot here and there was 


54 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

washed out ; and he kept continually repeating, 
“ When it ’s dry it will all brush off, when it 'S 
dry it will all brush off, won’t it ?” But soon the 
ear of being too late at the archery meeting ^be- 
gan to balance the dread of appearing in his 
stained habiliments ; and he now as anxiously re- 
peated, whilst the woman held the wet coat to the 
fire, “ O, I shall be too late ; indeed, I shall be too 
late; make haste; it will never dry; hold it 
nearer — nearer to the fire ; I shall lose my turn 
to shoot ; O give me the coat ; I don’t mind how 
it is, if I can but get it on.” 

Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried 
it quickly, to be sure, but it shrank it also ; so 
that it was no easy matter to get the coat on 
again. However, Hal, who did not see the red 
splashes, which, in spite of all the operations, 
were too visible upon his shoulders, and upon the 
skirts of his white coat behind, was pretty well 
satisfied to observe that there was not one spot 
upon the facings. ‘‘ Nobody,” said he, ‘‘ will take 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 


55 


notice of my coat behind, I dare say. I think it 
looks as smart almost as ever and under this 
persuasion, our young archer resumed his bow — 
his bow with green ribands now no more ! and 
he pursued his way to the Downs. 

All his companions were far out of sight. 
“ I suppose,” said he to his friend with the black 
patch — ‘‘ I suppose my uncle and Ben had left 
home before you went for the shoes and stockings 
for me?” 

“ O yes, sir ; the butler said they had been 
gone to the Dovms a matter of a good half hour 
or more.” 

Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could. 
When he got upon the Downs, he saw numbers 
of carriages, and crowds of people, all going to- 
wards the place of meeting, at the Ostrich. lie 
pressed forwards. He was at first so mucTi afraid 
of being late, that he did not take notice of the 
mirth his motley appearance excited in all behold- 
ers. At length he reached the appointed spot. 


56 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

There was a great crowd of people ; in the midst, 
he heard Lady Diana’s loud voice betting upon 
some one who was just going to shoot at the 
mark. 

“ So then the shooting is begun, is it ?” said 
Hal. “ O, let me in ; pray let me into the circle. 
I ’m one of the archers ; I am, indeed ; don’t you 
see my green and white uniform ?” 

“ Your red and white uniform, you mean,” said 
the man to whom he addressed himself; and the 
people, as they opened a passage for him, could 
not refrain from laughing at the mixture of dirt 
and finery which it exhibited. In vain, when he got 
into the midst of the formidable circle, he looked 
to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their 
countenance and support; they were amongst 
the most unmerciful of the laughers. Lady Diana 
also seemed more to enjoy than to pity his 
confusion. 

“ Why could you not keep your hat upon youi 
head, man?” said she, in her masculine tone. 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 57 

You have been almost the ruin of my poor uni- 
form-habit ; but, thank God, I ’ve escaped rather 
better than you have. Don’t stand there, in the 
middle of the circle, or you ’ll have an arrow in 
your eyes, just now, I ’ve a notion.” Hal looked 
round in search of better friends. “ O, where’s 
my uncle ? where ’s Ben ?” said he. He was in 
such confusion that, amongst the number of faces, 
he could scarcely distinguish one from another ; 
but he felt somebody at this moment pull his 
elbow^, and, to his great relief, he heard the 
friendly voice and saw the good-natured face of 
his cousin Ben. 

“ Come back ; come behind the people,” said 
Ben ; “ and put on my great coat ; here it is for 
you.” 

Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uni- 
form with the rough great coat which he had for- 
merly despised. He pulled the stained, drooping 
cockade out of his unfortunate hat; and he was now 
sufficiently recovered from his vexation to give an 


58 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

intelligible account of his accident to his uncle 
and Patty, who anxiously inquired what had de- 
tained him so long, and what had been the mat- 
ter. In the midst of the history of- his disaster, 
he was just proving to Patty that his taking the 
hat-band to spin his top had nothing to do with 
his misfortune, and he was at the same time en- 
deavouring to refute his uncle’s opinion that the 
waste of the whip-cord, that tied the parcel, was 
the original cause of all his evils, when he was 
summoned to try his skill with his famous bow. 

“ My hands are numbed ; I can scarcely feel,” 
said he, rubbing them, and blowing upon the ends 
of his fingers. 

“ Come, come,” cried young Sweepstakes, “ I ’m 
within one inch of the mark ; who ’ll go nearer, 
I shall like to see. Shoot away, Hal. But first 
understand our laws ; we settled them before you 
came upon the green. You are to have three 
shots, with your own bow and your own arrows ; 
and nobody ’s to borrow or lend uhder pretence 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 59 

of Other bows being better or worse, or under 
any pretence. Do you hear, Hal ?” 

This young gentleman had good reasons for 
being so strict in these laws, as he had observed 
that none of his companions had such an excel- 
lent bow as he had provided for himself. Some 
of the boys had forgotten to bring more than one 
arrow with them, and by his cunning regulations 
that each person should shoot with his own 
arrows, many had lost one or two of their 
shots. 

“ You are a lucky fellow : you have your three 
arrows,” said young Sweepstakes. “Come, we 
can’t wait whilst you rub your fingers, man — 
shoot away.” 

Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with 
which his friend spoke. He little knew how easily 
acquaintances, who call themselves friends, can 
-•change, when their interest comes in the slightest 
degree in competition with their friendship. Hur- 


60 WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

ried by his impatient rival, and with his hands so 
much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how 
to fix the arrow in the string, he drew the bow. 
The arrow was within a quarter of an inch of 
Master Sweepstakes’ mark, which was the nearest 
that had yet been hit. Hal seized his second 
arrow — “ If I have any luck,” said h^ — But just 
as he pronounced the word luck^ and as he bent 
his bow, the string broke in two, and the bow fell 
from his hands. 

“ There, it ’s all over with you,” cried Master 
Sweepstakes, with a triumphant laugh. 

“ Here ’s my bow for him, and welcome,” said 
Ben. 

‘‘ No, no, sir ; that is not fair ; that ’s against the 
regulation. You may shoot with your own bow if 
you choose it, or you may not, just as you think 
proper ; but you must not lend it, sir.” 

It was now Ben’s turn to make his trial. His^ 
first arrow was not successful. His second was 
exactly as near as Hal’s first. 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. G1 

“ You have but one more,” said Master Sweep- 
stakes. “ Now for it !” 

Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, pru- 
dently examined the string of his bow ; and as he 
pulled it to try its strength, it cracked. 

Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands with 
loud exultations and in»sulting laughter. But his 
laughter ceased, when our provident hero calmly 
drew from his pocket an excellent piece of whip- 
cord. 

“ The everlasting whip-cord, I declare !” ex- 
claimed Hal, when he saw that it was the very 
same that had tied up the parcel. 

‘‘ Yes,” said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, 
‘‘ I put it into my pocket to-day, on purpose, be- 
cause I thought I might happen to want it.” 

He drew his bow the third and last time. 

“ O, papa,” cried little Patty, as his arrow hit 
the mark, “ it ’s the nearest ; is not it the nearest ?” 

Master Sweepstakes, with anxiety, examined 
the hit. There could be no doubt. Ben was 


WASTE NOT, WANT NOT. 

Victorious ! The bow, the prize bow, was now 
delivered to him ; and Hal, as he looked at the 
whip-cord, exclaimed, ‘‘ How lucky this whip-cord 
has been to you, Ben !” 

“ It is lucky ^ perhaps, you mean, that he took 
care of it,” said Mr. Gresham. 

“ Ay,” said Hal, “ very true ; he might well say 
‘ Waste not, want not it is a good thing to have 
two strings to one’s bow.” 



THE END. 


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THE BRACELETS. 


In a beautiful and retired part of England lived 
IMrs. Villars, a lady whose accurate understand- 
ing, benevolent heart, and steady temper, peculiarly 
fitted her for the most difficult, as well as most ^ 
important of all occupations — the education of 
youth. This task she had undertaken; and 
twenty young persons were put under her care, 
with the perfect confii^ce of their parents. No 
young people could be happier ; they were good 
and gay, emulous, but not envious of each other ; 
for Mrs. Villars was impartially just. Her praise 
they felt to be the reward of merit, and her blame 
they knew to be the necessary consequence of 
ill conduct ; to the one,, therefore, they patiently 


4 


THE BRACELETS. 


submitted, and in the other consciously rejoiced. 
They rose with fresh cheerfulness in the mornin<T, 
eager to pursue their various occupations ; they 
returned in the evening with renewed ardour to 
their amusements, and retired to rest satisfied with 
themselves and pleased with each other. 

Nothing so much contributed to preserve a 
spirit of emulation in this little society as a small 
honorary distinction given annually, as the prize 
of successful application. The prize this year 
was peculiarly dear to each individual, as it was 
the picture of a friend whom they all dearly loved 
— it was the picture of Mrs. Villars in a small 
bracelet. It wanted neither gold, pearls, nor pre- 
cious stones, to give it value. 

The two foremost candidates for the prize were 
Cecilia and Leonora. Cecilia was the most in- 
timate friend of Leonora, but Leonora was only 
the favourite companion of Cecilia. 

Cecilia was of an active, ambitious, enterpri- 
sing disposition ,• more eager in the pursuit than 


THE BRACELETS. 


5 


happy in the enjoyment of her wishes. Leonora 
was of a contented, unaspiring, temperate charac- 
ter, not easily roused to action, but indefatigable 
when once excited. Leonora was proud, Cecilia 
was vain. Her vanity made her more dependent 
upon the approbation of others, and therefore 
more anxious to please, than Leonora ; but that 
very vanity made her, at the same time, more apt 
to offend. In short, Leonora was the most anx- 
ious to avoid what was wrong, Cecilia the most 
ambitious to do what was right. Few of their 
companions loved, but many were led by Cecilia, 
for she was often successful; many loved Leo- 
nora, but none were ever governed by her, for 
she was too indolent to govern. 

On the first day of May, about six o’clock in 
the evening, a great bell rang, to sumnion this 
little society into a hall, where the prize was to 
be decided. A number of small tables were placed 
in a circle in the middle of the hall ; seats for the 
young competitors were raised one above anotlier 


6 


THE BRACELETS. 


in a semicircle, some yards distant from the table ; 
and the judges’ chairs, under canopies of lilacs 
and luburnums, forming another semicircle, closed 
the amphitheatre. Every one put their writings, 
their drawings, their works of various kinds, up- 
on the tables appropriated for each. How un- 
steady were the last steps to these tables ! How 
each little hand trembled as it laid down its claims ! 
Till this moment every one thought herself se- 
cure of success, but now each felt an equal cer- 
tainty of being excelled ; and the heart which a 
few minutes before exulted with hope, now pal- 
pitated with fear. 

The works were examined, the preference ad- 
judged; and the prize was declared to be the 
happy Cecilia’s. Mrs. Villars came forward 
smiling, with the bracelet in her hand. Cecilia 
was behind her companions, on the highest row ; 
all the others gave way, and she was on the floor 
in an instant. Mrs. Villars clasped the bracelet 
on her arm; the clasp was heard through the 


THE BRACELETS. 


7 


whole hall, and a universal smile of congratula- 
tion followed. Mrs. Villars kissed Cecilia’s little 
hand ; and “ now,” said she, “go and rejoice with 
your companions; the remainder of the day is 
yours.” 

Oh ! you w^hose hearts are elated with success, 
whose bosoms beat high with joy, in the moment 
of triumph, command yourselves ; let that triumph 
be moderate, that it may be lasting. Consider 
that, though you are good, you may be better, 
and though wise, you may be weak. 

As soon as Mrs. Villars had given her the 
bracelet, all Cecilia’s little companions crowded 
round her, and they all left the hall in an instant. 
She was full of spirits and vanity — she ran on, 
running down the flight of steps which led to the 
garden. In her violent haste, Cecilia threw down 
the little Louisa. Louisa had a china mandarin 
in her hand, which her mother had sent ner that 
very morning ; it was all broke to pieces by the 
fall. 


s 


THE BRACELETS. 


‘‘ Oh ! my mandarin !” cried Louisa, burst- 
ing into tears. The crowd behind Cecilia sud- 
denly stopped. Louisa sat on the lowest step, 
fixing her eyes upon the broken pieces; then^ 
turning round, she hid her face in her hands upon 
the step above her. In turning, Louisa threw 
down the remains of the mandarin ; the head, 
which she had placed in the socket, fell from the 
shoulders, and rolled bounding along the gravel - 
walk. Cecilia pointed to the head and to the 
socket, and burst out laughing ; the crowd behind 
laughed too. At any other time they would have 
been more inclined to cry with Louisa ; but Cecilia 
had just been successful, and sympathy with the 
victorious often makes us forget justice. Leonora, 
however, preserved her usual consistency. “ Poor 
Louisa !” said she, looking first at her, and then 
reproachfully at Cecilia. Cecilia turned sharply 
round, colouring, half with shame and half with 
vexation. ‘‘ I could not help it, Leonora,” said 
she. 


THE BRACELETS. 


9 


‘‘ But you could have helped laughing, CeciUa.” 
“I didn’t laugh at Louisa; and I surely may 
laugh, for it does nobody any harm.” ‘‘I am 
sure, however,” replied Leonora, ‘‘ I should not 
have laughed if I had — ” “ No, to be sure you 

wouldn’t, because Louisa is your favourite. I can 
buy her another mandarin the next time that old 
pedlar comes to the door, if that ’s all. I can do 
no more. Can I?” said she, turning round to 
her companions. “No, to be sure,” said they, 
“ that ’s all fair.” 

Cecilia looked triumphantly at Leonora. Leo- 
nora let go her hand ; she ran on, and the crowd 
followed. When she got to the end of the gar- 
den, she turned round to see if Leonora had 
followed her too ; but was vexed to see her still 
sitting on the steps with Louisa. “ I ’m sure I 
can do no more than buy her another ! Can I ?” 
said she, again appealing to her companions. 

“ No, to be sure,” said they, eager to begin their 
plays. How many did they begin and leave off 


10 


THE BRACELETS. 


before Cecilia could be satisfied with any. Her 
thoughts were discomposed, and her mind was 
running upon something else; no wonder then 
that she did not play with her usual address. She 
grew still more impatient ; she threw down the 
nine-pins : “ Come, let us play at something else 

— at threading the needle,” said she, holding out 
her hand. They all yielded to the hand which 
wore the bracelet. But Ceciha, dissatisfied with 
herself, was discontented with everybody else; 
her tone grew more and more peremptory, — one 
was too rude, another too stiff; one was too slow, 
another too quick; in short, everything went 
wrong, and everybody w as tired of her humours. 

The triumph of success is absolute, but short. 
Cecilia’s companions at length recollected that, 
though she had embroidered a tulip and painted 
a peach better than they, yet that they could play 
as well, and keep their tempers better : she was 
thrown out. Walking towards the house in a 
peevish mood, sne met Leonora ; she passed on. 


THE BRACELETS. 


11 


“Cecilia!” cried Leonora. “Well, what do 
you want with me ?” “ Are we friends ?” “ You 

know best.” “We are; if you will let me tell 
Louisa that you are sorry — ” Cecilia, interrupt- 
ing her, “ O ! pray let me hear no more about 
Louisa !” “ What ! not confess that you were in 

the wrong ! Oh, Cecilia ! I had a better opinion 
of you.” “ Your opinion is of no consequence 
to me now ; for you don’t love me.” “ No, not 
when you are unjust, Cecilia.” “ Unjust ! I am 
not unjust ; and if I were, you are not my go- 
verness.” “ No, but am I not your friend ?” “ I 

don’t desire to have such a friend, who would 
quarrel with me for happening to throw down lit- 
tle Louisa — ^how could I tell that she had a man- 
darin in her hand? and when it was broken, 
could I do more than promise her another Was 
that unjust ?” “ But you know, Cecilia — ” “ 1 

know^'‘ ironically, “I know, Leonora, that you 
love Louisa better than you do me ; that ’s the 
injustice I” “ If I did,” replied Leonora gravely, 


12 


THE BRACELETS. 


“ it would be no injustice, if she deserved it bet- 
ter.” “ How can you compare Louisa to me !” 
exclaimed Cecilia, indignantly. 

Leonora made no answer, for she was really 
hurt at her friend’s conduct ; she walked on to 
join the rest of her companions. They were 
dancing in a round upon the grass. Leonora de- 
clined dancing, but they prevailed upon her to 
sing for them; her voice was not so sprightly, 
but it was sweeter than usual. Who sung so 
sweetly as Leonora ? or who danced so nimbly 
as Louisa ? 

Away she was flying, all spirits and gayety, 
when Leonora’s eyes full of tears, caught hers. 
Louisa silently let go her companions’ hands, 
and quitting the dance, ran up to Leonora to in- 
quire what was the matter with her. 

“ Nothing,” replied she, “ that need interrupt 
you, — Go, my dear, and dance again.” 

Louisa immediately ran away to her garden, 
and pulling off* her little straw hat, she lined it 


THE BRACELETS. 


13 


with the freshest strawberry leaves, and was upon 
her knees before the strawberry bed when Cecilia 
came by. Cecilia was not disposed to be pleased 
with Louisa at that instant, for two reasons : be- 
cause she was jealous of her, and because she 
had injured her. The injury, however, Louisa 
had already forgotten ; perhaps, to tell things just 
as they were, she was not quite so much inclined 
to kiss Cecilia as she would have been before the 
fall of her mandarin, but this was the utmost ex- 
tent of her malice, if it can be called malice. 

‘‘ What are you doing there, little one ?” said 
Cecilia in a sharp tone. “ Are you eating your 
early strawberries here all alone ?” “ No,” said 

Louisa, mysteriously ; ‘‘ I am not eating them.” 
“What are you doing with them — can’t you 
answer then ? I ’m not playing with you, child !” 
“ Oh ! as to that, Cecilia, you know I need not 
answer you unless I choose it ; not but what I 
would, if you would only ask me civilly — and if 
you would not call me child , “ Why should not 


14 


THE BRACELETS. 


I call you child ?” ‘‘ Because — because — don’t 

know ; — but I wish you would stand out of my 
light, Cecilia, for you are trampling upon all my 
strawberries.” “I have not touched one, you 
covetous little creature !” “ Indeed — ^indeed, Ce- 

cilia, I am not covetous. I have not eaten one 
of them — they are all for your friend Leonora. 
See how unjust you are.” “ Unjust ! that ’s a cant 
word you learned of my friend Leonora, as you 
call her, but she is not my friend now.” “ Not 
your friend now !” exclaimed Louisa. “ Then I 
am sure you must have done something very 
naughty.” “ How !” said Cecilia, catching hold 
of her. “ Let me go — Let me go !” cried Louisa, 
struggling. “ I won’t give you one of my straw- 
berries, for I don’t like you at all.” “ You don’t, 
don’t you ?” said Cecilia, provoked ; and catching 
the hat from Louisa, she flung the strawberries 
over the hedge. “ Will nobody help me !” ex- 
claimed Louisa, snatching her hat again, and run- 
ning away with all her force. 


THE BRACELETS. 


15 


“ What have I done ?” said Cecilia, recollecting 
herself. “ Louisa ! Louisa !” She called very 
loud, but Louisa would not turn back ! she was 
running to her companions. 

They were still dancing, hand in hand, upon the 
grass, whilst Leonora, sitting in the middle, sang 
to them. 

“ Stop ! stop ! and hear me !” cried Louisa, 
breaking through them ; and rushing up to Leo- 
nora, she threw her hat at her feet, and panting 
for breath — 

“ It was full — almost full of my own strawber- 
ries,” said she, “ the first I ever got out of my 
own garden. They should all have been for you, 
Leonora, but now I have not one left. They 
are all gone !” said she ; and she hid her face in 
Leonora’s lap. 

“ Gone ! gone where ?” said every one at once, 
running up to her. “ Cecilia ! Cecilia !” said she, 
sobbing. ‘‘Cecilia!” repeated Leonora; “what 
of Cecilia ?” “ Yes, it was — it was.” 


16 


THE BRACELETS. 


“ Come along with me,” said Leonora, unwil- 
ling to have her friend exposed ; “ come, and I 
will get you some more strawberries.” “ Oh, I 
don’t mind the strawberries, indeed ; but I wanted 
to have had the pleasure of giving them to 
you.” 

Leonora took her up in her arms to carry her 
away, but it was too late. 

“ What, Cecilia ! Cecilia, who won the prize ! 
It could not surely be Cecilia,” whispered every 
busy tongue. 

At this instant the bell summoned them in. 

“ There she is ! — There she is !” cried they, 
pointing to an arbour, where Cecilia was standing, 
ashamed and alone; and as they passed her, 
some lifted up their hands and eyes with astonish- 
ment, others whispered and huddled mysteriously 
together, as if to avoid her. Leonora walked on, 
her head a little higher than usual. 

“Leonora!” said Cecilia, timorously, as she 
passed. 


T HE BR ACEL ETS. 


17 


“Oh, Cecilia! who would have thought that 
you had a bad heart ?” 

Cecilia turned her head aside and burst into 
tears. 

“ Oh no, indeed, she has not a bad heart,” cried 
Louisa, running up to her, and throwing her arms 
round her neck; “she’s very sorry! — are not 
you, Cecilia ? But don’t cry any more, for I for- 
give you with all my heart ; and I love you now, 
though I said I did not when I was in a passion.’’ 

“ O, you sweet-tempered girl ! how I love you,” 
said Cecilia, kissing her. 

“ Well then, if you do, come along with me, 
and dry your eyes, for they are so red.” 

“ Go, my dear, and I ’ll come presently.” 

“ Then I will keep a place for you next to me ; 
but you must make haste, or you will have to 
come in when we have all set down to supper, 
and then you will be so stared at ! So don’t stay 
now.” 

Cecilia followed Louisa with her eyes till she 

B 


18 


THE BRACELETS. 


was out of sight. “ And is Louisa,” said she to 
herself, “ the only one who would stop to pity me ? 
Mrs. Villars told me that this day should be 
mine ; she little thought how it would end !” Say- 
ing these words, Cecilia threw herself down upon 
the ground ; her arm leaned upon a heap of turf 
which she had raised in the morning, and which 
in the pride and gayety of her heart, she had 
called her throne. 

At this instant, Mrs. Villars came out to enjoy 
the serenity of the evening, and passing by the 
arbour where Cecilia lay, she started; Cecilia 
rose hastily. 

“ Who is there ?” said Mrs. Villars. “ It is I, 
madam.” “ And who is J/” “ Cecilia.” “ Why, 
what keeps you here, my dear — ^where are your 
companions ? this is, perhaps, one of the happiest 
days of your life.” 

“ O no, madam !” said Cecilia, hardly able to 
repress her tears. 

“ Why, my dear, what is the matter ?” 


THE BRACELETS. 


19 


Cecilia hesitated. 

“Speak, my dear. You know that when I ask 
you to tell me any thing as your friend, I never 
punish you as your governess ; therefore you need 
not be afraid to tell me what is the matter.” 

“ No, madam, I am not afraid, but ashamed 
You asked me why I was not with my compa- 
nions. Why, madam, because they have all 
left me, and — ” “ And what, my dear ?” “ And I 
see that they all dislike me. And yet I don’t 
know why they should, for I take as much pains 
to please as any of them. All my masters seem 
satisfied with me ; and you yourself, ma’am, were 
pleased this very morning to give me this brace- 
let ; and I am sure you would not have given it 
to any one who did not deserve it.” “ Certainly 
not. You did deserve it for your application — 
for your successful application. The prize was for 
the most assiduous, not for the most amiable.” 
“ Then if it had been for the most amiable it 
^ would not have been for me ?” 


20 


THE BRACELETS. 


Mrs. Villars, smiling — “Why, what do you 
think yourself, Cecilia ? You are better able to 
judge than I am. I can determine whether or no 
you apply to what I give you to learn ; whether 
you attend to what I desire you to do, and avoid 
what I desire you not to do. I know that I like 
you as a pupil, but I cannot know that I should 
like you as a companion, unless I were your com- 
panion ; therefore I must judge of what I should 
do by seeing what others do in the same circum- 
stances.” 

“ O, pray don’t, ma’am ; for then you would 
not love me neither. And yet I think you would 
love me ; for I hope that I am as ready to oblige, 
and as good-natured, as — ” “Yes, Cecilia, I 
don’t doubt but that you would be very good-na- 
tured to me, but I am afraid that I should not 
like you unless you were good-tempered too.” 
“ But, ma’am, by good-natured I mean good-tem- 
pered — it ’s all the same thing.” “ No, indeed, I 
understand by them two very different things. 


THE BRACELETS. 


21 


You are good-natured, Cecilia, for you are desi- 
rous to oblige and serve your companions, to gam 
them praise and save them from blame, to give 
them pleasure, and to relieve them from pain; 
but Leonora is good-tempered, for she can bear 
with their foibles, and acknowledge her own. 
Without disputing about the right, she sometimes 
yields to those who are in the wrong. In short, 
her temper is perfectly good, for it can bear and 
forbear.” 

“ I wish that mine could,” said Cecilia, sighing. 

“ It may,” replied Mrs. Villars ; “ but it is not 
wishes alone which can improve us in any thing. 
Turn the same exertion and perseverance which 
have won you the prize to-day to this object, and 
you will meet with the same success ; perhaps 
not on the first, the second, or the third attempt, 
but depend upon it that you will at last ; every 
new effort will weaken your bad habits and 
strengthen your good ones. But you must not 
expect to succeed all at once; I repeat it to 


22 


THE BRACELETS. 


for habit must be counteracted by habit. It 
would be as extravagant in us to expect that all 
our faults could be destroyed by one punishment, 
were it ever so severe, as it was in the Roman 
emperor we were reading of a few days ago to 
wish that all the heads of his enemies were upon 
one neck, that he might cut them off by one 
blow.” 

Here Mrs. Villars took Cecilia by the hand, and 
they began to walk home. Such was the nature 
of Cecilia’s mind, that, when any object was for- 
cibly impressed on her imagination, it caused a 
temporary suspension of her reasoning faculties. 
Hope was too strong a stimulus for her spirits ; 
and when fear did take possession of her mind, it 
was attended with total debility. Her vanity was 
now as much mortified as in the morning it had 
been elated. She walked on with Mrs. Villars in 
silence until they came under the shade of the elm- 
tree walk, and then, fixing her eyes upon Mrs 
Villars, she stopped short. “ Do you think, rna- 


THE BRACELETS. 


23 


dam,” said she, with hesitation, “ do you think, 
madam, that I have a bad heart ?” 

A bad heart, my dear ! why, what put that 
into your head ?” 

“ Leonora said that I had, nia’am, and I felt 
ashamed when she said so.” 

“ But, my dear, how can Leonora tell whether 
your heart be good or bad? However, in the 
first place, tell me what you mean by a bad 
heart.” 

“ Indeed, I do not know what is meant by it, 
ma’am ; but it is something which every body 
hates.” 

“ And why do they hate it ?” 

‘‘Because they think that it will hurt them, 
ma’am, I believe ; and that those who have bad 
hearts take delight in doing mischief ; and that 
they never do any body good but for their own 
ends.” 

“ Then the best definition which you can give 
me of a bad heart is that it is some constant pro- 


24 


THE BR ACBLE TS . 


pensity to hurt others, and to do wrong for the 
sake of doing wrong.” 

“ Yes, ma’am, but that is not all neither ; there 
is still something else meant ; something which I 
cannot express — ^which, indeed, I never distinctly 
understood ; but of which, therefore, I was the 
more afraid.”, 

“ Well, then, to begin with what you do under- 
stand, tell me, Cecilia, do you really think it pos- 
sible to be wicked merely for the love of wicked- 
ness ? No human being becomes wicked all at 
once ; a man begins by doing wrong because it is, 
or because he thinks it is for his interest ; if he 
continue to do so, he must conquer his sense of 
shame, and lose his love of virtue. But how can 
you, Cecilia, who feel such a strong sense of 
shame, and such an eager desire to improve, ima- 
gine that you have a bad heart ?” 

“ Indeed, madam, I never did, until every body 
told me so, and then I began to be frightened 
About it. This very evening, ma’am, when I was 


THE BRACELETS, 


25 


in a passion, I threw little Louisa’s strawberries 
away ; which, I am sure, I was very sorry for 
afterwards ; and Leonora and every body cried 
out that I had a bad heart ; but I am sure that I 
w'as only in a passion.” 

‘‘ Very likely. And when you are in a passion, 
as you call it, Cecilia, you see that you are 
tempted to do harm to others; if they do not 
feel angry themselves, they do not sympathize 
with you ; they do not perceive the motive which 
actuates you, and then they say that you have a 
bad heart. I dare say, however, when your pas- 
sion is over, and when you recollect yourself, you 
are very sorry for what you have done and said ; 
are not you ?” 

“ Yes, indeed, madam, very sorry.” 

“ Then make that sorrow of use to you, Ceci- 
lia, and fix it steadily in your thoughts, as you 
hope to be good and happy, that, if you suffer 
yourself to yield to your passion upon every tri- 
fling occasion, anger and its consequences will 


26 


THE BRACELETS. 


become familiar to your mind ; and in the same 
proportion your sense of shame will be weakened, 
till what you began with doing from sudden im- 
pulse you will end with doing from habit and 
choice ; and then you would, indeed, according to 
our definition, have a bad heart.” 

“Oh, madam! I hope — I am sure I never 
shall.” 

“No, indeed, Cecilia; I do, indeed, believe 
that you never will ; on the contrary, I think that 
you have a very good disposition, and, what is 
of infinitely more consequence to you, an active 
desire of improvement. Show me that you have 
as much perseverance as you have candour, and 
I shall not despair of your becoming every thing 
that I could wish.” 

Here Cecilia’s countenance brightened, and she 
ran up the steps in almost as high spirits as she 
ran down them in the morning. 

“ Good night to you, Cecilia,” said Mrs. Villars, 
as she was crossing the hall. “ Good night to 


THE BRACELETS. 


27 


you, madam,” said Cecilia ; and she ran up stairs 
to bed. 

She could not go to sleep, but she lay awake 
reflecting upon the events of the preceding day, 
and forming resolutions for the future; at the 
same time, considering that she had resolved, and 
resolved without effect, she wished to give her 
mind some more powerful motive ; ambition she 
knew to be its most powerful incentive. 

“ Have I not,” said she to herself, “ already 
won the prize of application, and cannot the same 
application procure me a much higher prize? 
Mrs. Villars said that if the prize had been pro- 
mised to the most amiable it would not have been 
given to me ; perhaps it would not yesterday — 
perhaps it might not to-morrow ; but that is no 
reason that I should despair of ever deserving it.” 

In consequence of this reasoning, Cecilia form- 
ed a design of proposing to her companions 
that they should give a prize, the first of the en- 
suing month (the first of June), to the most 


28 


THE BRACELETS. 


amiable. Mrs. Viliars applauded the scheme, 
and her companions adopted it with the greatest 
alacrity. 

“ Let the prize,” said they, “ be a bracelet of 
our own hair and instantly their shining scis- 
sors were procured, and each contributed a lock 
of her hair. They formed the most beautiful 
gradation of colours, from the palest auburn to 
the brightest black. Who was to have the hon- 
our of plaiting them was now the question. 

Caroline begged that she might, as she could 
plait very neatly, she said. 

Cecilia, however, was equally sure that she 
could do it much better, and a dispute would in- 
evitably have ensued, if Cecilia, recollecting her- 
self just as her colour rose to scarlet, had not 
yielded — yielded with no very good grace indeed, 
but as well as could be expected for the first time. 
For it is habit which confers ease; and without 
ease, even in moral actions, there can be no grace. 

The bracelet was plaited in the neatest manner 


THE BRACELETS. 


29 


by Caroline, finished round the edge with silver 
twist, and on it was worked, in the smallest silver 
letters, this motto, to the most amiable. The 
moment it was completed, every body begged 
to try it on. It fastened with little silver clasps, 
and as it was made large enough for the eldest 
girls, it was too large for the youngest ; of this 
they bitterly complained, and unanimously en- 
treated that it might be cut to fit them. 

“ How foolish !” exclaimed Cecilia. “ Don’t 
you perceive that, if you win it, you have nothing 
to do but to put the clasps a little further from 
the edge ? but if we get it, we can’t make it 
larger.” 

“ Very true,” said they, “ but you need not to 
have called us foolish, Cecilia !” 

It was by such hasty and unguarded expres- 
sions as these that Cecilia offended; a slight dif- 
ference in the manner makes a very material one 
in the effect. Cecilia lost more love by general 


30 


THE BRACELETS. 


petulance than she could gain by the greatest 
particular exertions. 

How far she succeeded in curing herself of 
this defect, how far she became deserving of the 
bracelet, and to whom the bracelet was given, 
shall be told in the history of the first of June. 


CONTINUATION OF THE BRACELETS. 

The first of June was now arrived, and all the 
young competitors were in a state of the most 
anxious suspense. Leonora and Cecilia continued 
to be the foremost candidates ; their quarrel had 
never been finally adjusted, and their different 
pretensions now retarded all thoughts of a recon- 
ciliation. Cecilia, though she was capable of ac- 
knowledging any of her faults in public before 
all her companions, could not humble herself in 
private to Leonora ; Leonora was her equal, they 
were her inferiors ; and submission is much easier 


THE BRACELETS . 


31 


to a vain mind, where it appears to be voluntary, 
than when it is the necessary tribute to justice or 
candour. So strongly did Cecilia feel this truth 
that she even delayed making any apology, or 
coming to any explanation with Leonora, until 
success should once more give her the palm. 

If I win the bracelet to-day, said she to her- 
self, I will solicit the return of Leonora’s friend- 
ship ; it will be more valuable to me than even 
the bracelet ; and at such a time, and asked in 
such a manner, she surely cannot refuse it to me. 
Animated with this hope of a double triumph^ 
Cecilia canvassed with the most zealous activity ; 
by constant attention and exertion she had con- 
siderably abated the violence of her temper, and 
changed the course of her habits. Her powers 
of pleasing were now excited, instead of her 
abilities to excel; and, if her talents appeared 
less brilliant, her character was acknowledged to 
be more amiable ; so great an influence upon our 
manners and conduct have the objects of our 


32 


THB BRACELETS. 


ambition. Cecilia was now, if possible, more 
than ever desirous of doing what was right, but 
she had not yet acquired sufficient fear of doing 
wrong. This was the fundamental error of her 
mind ; it arose in a great measure from her early 
education. 

Her mother died when she was very young . 
and though her father had supplied her place in 
the best and kindest manner, he had insensibly 
infused into his daughter’s mind a portion of that 
enterprising, independent spirit, which he justly 
deemed essential to the character of her brother. 
This brother was some years older than Cecilia, 
but he had always been the favourite companion 
of her youth ; what her father’s precepts incul- 
cated, his example enforced, and even Cecilia’s 
virtues consequently became such as were more 
estimable in a man than desirable in a female, 
j All small objects and small errors she had been 
taught to disregard as trifles ; and her impatient 
disposition was perpetually leading her into more 


THE BRACELETS. 


33 


material faults ; yet her candour in confessing 
these, she had been suffered to believe, was suffi- 
cient reparation and atonement. 

Leonora, on the contrary, who had been edu- 
cated by her mother in a manner more suited to 
her sex, had a character and virtues more pecu- 
liar to a female; her judgment had been early 
cultivated, and her good sense employed in the 
regulation of her conduct ; she had been habitu- 
ated to that restraint, which, as a woman, she 
was to expect in life, and early accustomed to 
yield; compliance in her seemed natural and 
graceful. 

Yet, notwithstanding the gentleness of her 
temper, she was in reality more independent than 
Cecilia; she had more reliance upon her own 
judgment, and more satisfaction in her own ap- 
probation. Though far from insensible to praise, 
she was not liable to be misled by the indiscrimi- 
nate love of admiration ; the uniform kindness of 
her manner, the consistency and equahty of her 
c 


34 


THE BRACELETS. 


character, had fixed the esteem and passive love 
of her companions. 

By passive love, we mean that species of affec- 
tion which makes us unwilling to offend, rather 
than anxious to oblige; which is more a habit 
than an emotion of the mind. For Cecilia, her 
companions felt active love, for she was active in 
showing her love to them. 

Active love arises spontaneously in the mind, 
after feeling particular instances of kindness, 
without reflection on the past conduct or general 
character ; it exceeds the merits of its object, and 
is connected with a feeling of generosity, rather 
than with a sense of justice. 

Without determining which species of love is 
the more flattering to others, we can easily decide 
which is the most agreeable feeling to our own 
minds ; we give our hearts more credit for being 
generous than for being just ; and we feel more 
self-complacency when we give our love volun- 
tarily, than when we yield it as a tribute which 


THE BRACELETS. 


35 


we cannot withhold. Though Cecilia’s compa- 
nions might not know all this in theory, they 
proved it in practice ; for they loved her in a 
much higher proportion to her merits than they 
loved Leonora. 

Each of the young judges were to signify their 
choice by putting a red or a white shell into a vase 
prepared for the purpose. Cecilia’s colour was 
red, Leonora’s white. In the morning nothing 
was to be seen but these shells, nothing talked of 
but the long-expected event of the evening. Ce- 
cilia, following Leonora’s example, had made it a 
point of honour not to inquire of any individual 
her vote previous to their final determination. 

They were both sitting together in Louisa’s 
room ; Louisa was recovering from the measles. 
Every one, during her illness, had been desirous 
of attending her ; but Leonora and Cecilia were 
the only two that were permitted to see her, as 
they alone had had the distemper. They were 
both assiduous in their care of Louisa ; but Leo- 


36 


THE BRACELETS. 


nora’s want of exertion to overcome any disa- 
greeable feelings of sensibility often deprived her 
of presence of mind, and prevented her being so 
constantly useful as Cecilia. Cecilia, on the con- 
trary, often made too much noise and bustle with 
her officious assistance, and was too anxious to 
invent amusements and procure comforts for 
Louisa, without perceiving that illness takes 
away the power of enjoying them. 

As she was sitting in the window in the 
morning, exerting herself to entertain Louisa, she 
heard the voice of an old pedlar who often used 
to come to the house. Down stairs she ran im- 
mediately to ask Mrs. Villars’s permission to 
bring him into the hall. 

Mrs. Villars consented, and away Cecilia ran 
to proclaim the news to her companions; then 
first returning into the hall, she found the pedlar 
just unbuckling his box, and taking it off his 
shoulders. “ W hat would you be pleased to want. 
Miss?” said he. “I’ve all kinds of tweezer- 


THE BRACELETS. 


37 


cases, rings, and lockets of all sorts,” continued 
he, opening all the glittering drawers successively. 

‘‘Oh!” said Cecilia, shutting the drawer of 
lockets which tempted her most, “ these are not 
the things which I want; have you any china 
figures, any mandarins ?” 

“ Alack-a-day, Miss, I had a great stock of 
that same china w are, but now I ’m quite out of 
them kind of things; but I believe,” said he, 
rummaging in one of the deepest drawers, “ I be- 
lieve I have one left, and here it is.” 

“ Oh, that is the very thing ! what’s its price ?” 

“Only three shillings, ma’am.” Cecilia paid 
the money, and was just going to carry off the 
mandarin, when the pedlar took out of his great- 
coat pocket a neat mahogany case ; ^t was about 
a foot long, and fastened at each end by two lit- 
tle clasps; it had besides a small lock in the 
middle. 

“ What is that ?” said Cecilia, eagerly. 

“ It ’s only a china figure. Miss, which I am go- 


38 


THE BRACELETS. 


ing to carry to an elderly lady, who lives nigh at 
hand, and who is mighty fond of such things.” 

“ Could you let me look at it ?” 

“ And welcome. Miss,” said he, and opened the 
case. 

“ O goodness ! how beautiful !” exclaimed Ce 
cilia. 

It was a figure of Flora, crowned with roses, 
and carrying a basket of flowers in her hand. 
Cecilia contemplated it with delight. “How I 
should like to give this to Louisa,” said she to 
herself; and at last breaking silence, Did you 
promise it to the old lady ?” 

“ O no. Miss ; I didn’t promise it — she never 
saw it; and if so be that you’d like to take it, 
I’d make nff more words about it.” 

“ And how much does it cost ?” 

“ Why, Miss, as to that, I ’ll let you have it 
for half-a-guinea.” 

Cecilia immediately produced the box in which 
she kept her treasure, and emptying it upon the 







■ f ■ *• ' 


• r I » i 




rvji-' -r - >» 

. ^ ' IT • . \A *8 


i fci * ’ 

, 'i ^ •*.’■» 



' 

> 

*» •" • 


P «» « ^ 


.. 






t I " 
« 

i 

-"i 


•V V A> . 

< - A’ •■ ‘ ^ 


:;, f - 




s • 

•t 


*■ 'f- 

>*K 


« ■ 


THE BR ACEL ETS. 


39 


table, she began to count the shillings ; alas ! there 
were but six shillings. “ How provoking !” said 
she ; “ then I can’t have it — where ’s the manda- 
rin ? O I have it,” said she, taking it up, and 
looking at it with the utmost disgust. “ Is this 
the same that I had before ?” 

“ Yes, Miss, the very same,” replied the pedlar, 
who, during this time, had been examining the 
little box out of which Cecilia had taken her mo- 
ney ; it was of silver. 

“ Why, ma’am,” said he, “ since you ’ve taken 
such a fancy to the piece, if you ’ve a mind to 
make up the remainder of the money, I will take 
this here little box, if you care to part with it.” 

Now this box was a keepsake from Leonora 
to Cecilia. “ No,” said Cecilia hastily, blushing 
a little, and stretching out her hand to receive it. 

“Oh, Miss!” said he, returning it carelessly, 
“ I hope there ’s no offence ; I meant but to serve 
you, that ’s all. Such a rare piece of china-work 
has no cause to go a begging,” added he, putting 


40 


THE BRACELETS. 


the Flora deliberately into the case ; then turning 
the key with a jerk, he let it drop into his pocket, 
and lifting up his box by the leather straps, he 
was preparing to depart. 

“ Oh, stay one minute !” said Cecilia, in whose 
mind there had passed a very warm conflict du- 
ring the pedlar’s harangue. “ Louisa would so 
like this Flora,” said she, arguing with herself ; 

besides, it would be so generous in me to give 
it to her instead of that ugly mandarin; that 
would be doing only common justice, for I pro- 
niised it to her, and she expects it. Though, 
when I come to look at this mandarin, it is not 
even so good as hers was ; the gilding is all rub- 
bed off, so that I absolutely must buy this for her. 
O yes, I will, and she will be so delighted ! and 
then every body will say it is the prettiest thing 
they ever saw, and the broken mandarin will bo 
forgotten forever.” 

Here Cecilia’s hand moved, and she was just 
going to decide : “O ! but stop,” said she to her- 


r H E BRACELETS. 


41 


self; “ consider Leonora gave me this box, and 
it is a keepsake ; however, now we have quar- 
reled, and I dare say that she would not mind my 
parting with it ; I’m sure that I should not care 
if she was to give away my keepsake the smell- 
ing bottle, or the ring which I gave her ; so what 
does it signify ; 'besides, is it not my own, and 
have I not a right to do what I please with it ?” 

At this dangerous instant for Cecilia, a party 
of her companions opened the door; she knew 
that they came as purchasers, and she dreaded her 
Flora’s becoming the prize of some higher bidder. 
“ Here,” said she, hastily putting the box into the 
pedlar’s hand, without looking at it ; “ take it, 
and give me the Flora.” Her hand trembled, 
though she snatched it impatiently ; she ran by, 
without seeming to mind any of her companions 
— she almost wished to turn back. 

Let those who are tempted to do wrong by the 
hopes of future gratification, or the prospect of 
certain concealment and impunity, remember that. 


42 


THE BRACELETS. 


unless they are totally depraved, they bear in 
their own hearts a monitor who will prevent their 
enjoying what they have ill obtained. 

In vain Cecilia ran to the rest of her compan- 
ions, to display her present, in hopes that the 
applause of others would restore her own self- 
complacency ; in vain she saw the Flora pass in 
due pomp from hand to hand, each vieing with 
the other in extolling the beauty of the gift and 
the generosity of the giver. Cecilia was still 
displeased with herself, with them, and even with 
their praise; from Louisa’s gratitude, however, 
she yet expected much pleasure, and immediately 
she ran up stairs to her room. 

In the mean time Leonora had gone into the 
hall to buy a bodkin ; she had just broken hers. 
In giving her change, the pedlar took out of his 
pocket, with some half-pence, the very box which 
Cecilia had sold him. Leonora did not in the 
least suspect the truth, for her mind was above 
suspicion ; and besides, she had the utmost con- 


THE BRACELETS. 


43 


fidence \a Cecilia. “ I should like to have that 
box,” said she, “ for it is like one of which I was 
very fond.” 

The pedlar named the price, and Leonora took 
the box ; she intended to give it to little Louisa. 

On going to her room she found her asleep, 
and she sat down softly by her bed-side. Louisa 
opened her eyes. 

“ I hope I didn’t disturb you,” said Leonora. 

“ O no ; I didn’t hear you come in ; but what 
have you got there ?” 

“ It is only a little box ; would you like to have 
it ? I bought it on purpose for you, as I thought 
perhaps it would please you; because it’s like 
that which I gave Cecilia.” 

“ O yes ! that out of which she used to give 
me Barbary drops. I am very much obliged to 
you. I always thought that exceedingly pretty; 
and this, indeed, is as like it as possible. I can’t 
unscrew it ; will you try ?” 

Leonora unscrewed it. 


44 


THE BRACELETS. 


“ Goodne&s !” exclaimed Louisa, “ this must be 
Cecilia’s box ; look, don’t you see a great L at 
the bottom of it ?” 

Leonora’s colour changed. “ Yes,” she replied 
calmly, “I see that, but it is no proof that it is 
Cecilia’s ; you know that I bought this box just 
now of the pedlar.” 

“ That may be,” said Louisa ; “ but I remem- 
ber scratching that L with my own needle, and 
Cecilia scolded me for it, too. Do go and ask 
her if she has lost her box — do,” repeated Louisa, 
pulling her by the sleeve, as she did not seem to 
hsten. 

Leonora indeed did not hear, for she was lost 
in thought ; she was comparing circumstances, 
which had before escaped her attention. She re- 
collected that Cecilia had passed her as she came 
into the hall, without seeming to see her, but had 
blushed as she passed. She remembered that the 
pedlar appeared unwilling to part with the box, 
and was going to put it again into his pocket 


THE BRACELETS. 


45 


with the half-pence ; “ and why should he keep 
it in his pocket and not show it with his other 
things?” Combining all these circumstances, 
Leonora had no longer any doubt of the truth ; 
for though she had honourable confidence in her 
friends, she had too much penetration to be im- 
plicitly credulous. “ Louisa,” she began, but at 
this instant she heard a step, which, by ifs quick- 
ness, she knew to be Cecilia’s, coming along the 
passage. “ If you love me, Louisa,” said Leo- 
nora, ‘‘ say nothing about the box.” 

‘‘ Nay, but why not ? I dare say she has lost 
it.” 

‘‘ No, my dear, I am afraid she has not.” 
Louisa looked surprised. 

“ But I have reasons for desiring you not to 
say any thing about it.” 

“Well, then, I won’t, indeed.” 

Cecilia opened the door, came forward smil- 
ing, as if secure of a good reception, and, ta- 
king the Flora out of the case, she placed it on 


46 


THE BRACELETS. 


the mantel-piece, opposite to Louisa’s bed. ‘‘ Dear, 
how beautiful,” cried Louisa, starting up. 

“ Yes,” said Cecilia, “ and guess who it ’s for ?” 

“ For me, perhaps !” said the ingenuous Louisa. 

‘‘ Yes, take it, and keep it for my sake ; you 
loiow that I broke your mandarin.” 

“O! but this is a great deal prettier and 
larger than that.” 

“ Yes, I know it is ; and I meant that it should 
be so. I should only have done what I was 
bound to do if I had only given you a mandarin.” 

“Well, and that would have been enough, 
surely ; but what a beautiful crown of roses ! and 
then that basket of flowers ! they almost look as 
if I could smell them. Dear Cecilia ! I ’m very 
much obliged to you, but I won’t take it by wa.y 
of pa 3 nnent for the mandarin you broke ; for I ’m 
sure you could not help that ; and, besides, 1 
should have broken it myself by this time. You 
shall give it to me entirely, and I ’ll keep it as 
long as I live as your keepsake.” 


THE BRACELETS. 


47 


Louisa stopped short and coloured. The word 
keepsake recalled the box to her mind, and all 
the train of ideas whioh the Flora had banished. 
“ But,” said she, looking up wishfully in Cecilia’s 
face, and holding the Flora doubtfully, “did 
you — ” 

Leonora, who was just quitting the room, turn- 
ed her head back, and gave Louisa a look, which 
silenced her. 

Cecilia was so infatuated with her vanity, that 
she neither perceived Leonora’s sign, nor Louisa’s 
confusion, but continued showing off her present, 
by placing it in various situations, till at length 
she put it into the case, and laying it down with 
an affected carelessness upon the bed, “ I must 
go now, Louisa. Good bye,” said she, running up 
and kissing her ; “ but I ’ll come again presently 
then clapping the door after her, she went. 

But as soon as the fermentation of her spirits 
subsided, the sense of shame, which had been 
scarcely felt when mixed with so many other 


48 


THE BRACELETS. 


sensations, rose uppermost in her mind. “ What 
said she to herself, “ is it possible that I have sold 
what I promised to keep for ever? and what 
Leonora gave me ? and I have concealed it too, 
and have been making a parade of my gener- 
osity. O! what would Leonora, what would 
Louisa, what would every body think of me, if 
the truth were known ?” 

Humiliated and grieved by these reflections, 
Cecilia began to search in her own mind for some 
consoling idea. She began to compare her con- 
duct with the conduct of others of her own age ; 
and at length, fixing her comparison upon her 
brother George, as the companion of whom, from 
her infancy, she had been habitually the most 
emulous, she recollected that an almost similar 
circumstance had once happened to him, and that 
he had not only escaped disgrace, but had ac- 
quired glory by an intrepid confession of his fault. 
Her father’s words to her brother, on that occa- 
sion, she also perfectly recollected. 


THE BRACELETS. 


49 


“ Come to^ me, George,” he said, holding out 
his hand ; “ you are a generous, brave boy. They 
who dare to confess their faults will make great 
and good men.” 

These were his words ; but Cecilia, in repeat- 
ing them to herself, forgot to lay that emphasis 
on the word men, which would have placed it in 
contradistinction to the word women. She wil- 
lingly believed that the observation extended 
equally to both sexes, and flattered herself that 
she should exceed her brother in merit, if she 
owned a fault which she thought that it would be 
so much more diffcult to confess. “ Yes, but,” 
said she, stopping herself, “ how can I confess it ? 
This very evening, in a few hours, the prize will 
be decided ; Leonora or I shall win it. I have 
now as good a chance as Leonora, perhaps a 
better; and must I give up all my hopes ? all that 
I have been labouring for this month past! O, I 
never can ; — if it were to-morrow, or yesterday, 
or any day but this, I would not hesitate, but now 

p 


50 


THE BRACELETS. 


I am almost certain of the prize, ari(l if I win it 
— well, why then I will — I think, I will tell all — 
yes, I will ; I am determined,” said Cecilia. 

Here a bell summoned them to dinner. Leo- 
nora sat opposite to her, and she was not a little 
surprised to see Cecilia look so gay and unre- 
strained. “ Surely,” said she to herself, ‘‘ if Cecilia 
had done this, that I suspect, she would not, she 
could not look as she does.” But Leonora little 
knew the cause of her gayety ; Cecilia was never 
in higher spirits, or better pleased with herself, 
than when she had resolved upon a sacrifice or a 
confession. 

“ Must not this evening be given to the most 
amiable? Whose,^ then, will it be?” All eyes 
glanced first at Cecilia and then at Leonora. Ce- 
cilia smiled ; Leonora blushed. “ I see that it is 
not yet decided,” said Mrs. Villars ; and imme- 
diately they ran up stairs, amidst confused whis- 
perings. 

Cecilia’s voice could be distinguished far above 


THE BR ACEL ETS. 


51 


the rest. “How can she be so happy?” said 
Leonora to herself. “O, Cecilia, there was a 
time when you could not have neglected me so ^ 
— when we were always together, the best of 
friends and companions, our wishes, tastes, and 
pleasures the same. Surely she did once love 
me,” said Leonora; “but now she is quite changed. 
She has even sold my keepsake, and would rather 
win a bracelet of hair from girls whom she did 
not always think so much superior to Leonora, 
than have my esteem, my confidence, and my 
friendship, for her whole life ; yes, for her whole 
life, for I am sure she will be an amiable woman. 
Oh that this bracelet had never been thought of, 
or that I was certain of her winning it ; for I am 
certain that I do not wish to win it from her. I 
would rather, a thousand times rather, that we 
were as we used to be, than have all the glory in 
the world. And how pleasing Cecilia can be 
when she wishes to please ! how candid she is ! 
how much she can improve herself! — let me be 


52 


THE BRACELETS. 


just, though she has offended me — she is wonder- 
fully improved within this last month; for one 
fault, and that against myself, should I forget all 
her merits ?” 

As Leonora said these last words, she could 
but just hear the voices of her companions ; they 
had left her alone in the gallery. She knocked 
softly at Louisa’s door — “ Come in,” said Louisa. 
“ I ’m not asleep. Oh,” said she, starting up with 
the Flora in her hand, the instant that the door 
was opened. “ I ’m so glad you are come, Leo- 
nora, for I did so long to hear what you were 
all making such a noise about — ^have you forgot 
that the bracelet — ” 

O yes ! is this the evening ?” 

“Well, here’s my white shell for you. I’ve 
kept it in my pocket this fortnight ; and though 
Cecilia did give me this Flora, I still love you a 
great deal better.” 

“ I thank you, Louisa,” said Leonora, gratefully. 

^ “I will take your shell, and I shall value it as 


THE BRACELETS. 


53 


long as I live. But here is a red one, and if you 
wish to show me that you love me, you will, give 
this to Cecilia. I know that she is particularly 
anxious for your preference, and I am sure that 
she deserves it.” 

“ Yes, if I could I would choose* both of you ; 
but you know I can only choose which I like the 
best.” 

“ If you mean, my dear Louisa,” said Leonora, 
“that you like me the best, I am very much 
obliged to you ; for, indeed I wish you to love me ; 
but it is enough for me to know it in private. I 
should not feel the least more pleasure at hearing 
it in public, or in having it made known to all my 
companions, especially at a time when it would 
give poor Cecilia a great deal of pain.” 

“ But why should it give her pain ? I don’t like 
her for being jealous of you.” 

“ Nay, Louisa, surely you don’t think Cecilia 
jealous; she only tries to excel and to please. 
She is more anxious to succeed than I am, it is' 


54 


THE BRACELETS. 


true, because she has a great deal more activity, 
and-perhaps more ambition ; and it would really 
mortify her to lose this prize. You know that 
she proposed it herself; it has been her object 
for this month past, and I am sure she has taken 
great pains to obtain it.” 

“ But, dear Leonora, why should you lose it ?” 

“ Indeed, my dear, it would be no losa to me ; 
and, if it were, I would willingly suffer it for Ce- 
cilia ; for, though we seem not to be such good 
friends as we used to be, I love her very much, 
and she will love me again, I ’m sure she will ; 
when she no longer fears me as a rival, she will 
again love me as a friend.” 

Here Leonora heard a number of her compan- 
ions running along the gallery. They all knocked 
hastily at the door, calling, “ Leonora ! Leonora ! 
will you never come ? Cecilia has been with us 
this half hour.” 

Leonora smiled. “Well, Louisa,” said she, 
smiling, “ will you promise me ?” 


THE BRACELETS. 


55 


“ O, I ’m sure, by the way they speak to you, 
that they won’t give you the prize !” said the lit- 
tle Louisa ; and the tears started into her eyes. 

“ They love me though, for all that ; and as for 
the prize, you know whom I wish to have it.” 

“ Leonora ! Leonora !” called her impatient 
companions ; ‘‘ don’t you hear us ? What are 
you about ?” 

‘‘ O, she never will take any trouble about any 
thing,” said one of the party ; “ let ’s go away.” 

‘‘ O go ! go ! make haste,” cried Louisa ; “don’t 
stay, they are so angry — I will, I will, indeed !” 

“Remember, then, that you have promised 
me,” said Leonora, and she left the room. During 
all this time Cecilia had been in the garden with 
her companions. The ambition which she had 
felt to win the first prize, the prize of superior ta- 
lents and superior application, was not to be com- 
pared to the absolute anxiety which she now ex- 
pressed to win this simple testimony of the love 
and approbation of her equals and rivals. 


56 


THE BRACELETS. 


To employ her exuberant activity, she had been 
dragging branches of lilacs, and laburnums, roses, 
and sweet-briar, to ornament the bower in which 
her fate was to be decided. It was excessively 
hot, but her mind was engaged, and she was in- 
defatigable. She stood still, at last, to admire 
her works ; her companions all joined in loud ap- 
plause. They were not a little prejudiced in her 
favour by the great eagerness which she ex- 
pressed to win their prize, and by the great im- 
portance which she seemed to affix to the prefer- 
ence of each individual. At last, ‘‘Where is 
Leonora?” cried one of them, and immediately, 
as we have seen, they ran to call her. 

Cecilia was left alone.’ Overcome with heat 
and too violent exertion, she had hardly strength 
to support herself ; each moment appeared to her 
intolerably long ; she was in a state of the utmost 
suspense, and all her courage failed her; even 
hope forsook her, and hope is a cordial which 
leaves the mind depressed and enfeebled. “ The 


THE BRACELETS. 


57 


time is now come,” said Cecilia ; in a few mo- 
ments it will be decided. In a few moments! 
goodness ! how much I do hazard ! If I should 
not win the prize, how shall I confess what I have 
done ? How shall I beg Leonora to forgive me ? 

I, who hoped to restore my friendship to her as 
an honour ! — they are gone to seek for her — the 
moment she appears I shall be forgotten — what 
shall — what shall I do ?” said Cecilia, covering 
her face with her hands. 

Such was her situation, when Leonora, accom- 
panied by her companions, opened the hall-door ; 
they most of them ran forward to Cecilia. As 
Leonora came into the bower, she held out her 
hand to Cecilia — ‘‘ We are not rivals, but friends, 

I hope,” said she. Cecilia clasped her hand, but 
she was in too great agitation to speak. 

The table was now set in the arbour — the vase • 
was now placed in the middle. “ Well !” said 
Cecilia, eagerly, “who begins?” Caroline, one 
of her friends, came forward first, and then all the 


58 


THE BRACELETS. 


Others successively. Cecilia’s emotion was hard- 
ly conceivable. — “ Now they are all in. Count 
them, Caroline !” 

‘‘ One, two, three, four ; the numbers are both 
equal.” There was a dead silence. 

“ No, they are not,” exclaimed Cecilia, pressing 
forward and putting a shell into the vase — “I 
have not given mine, and I give it to Leonora.” 
Then snatching the bracelet, “ It is yours, Leo- 
nora,” said she ; “ take it, and give me back your 
friendship.” The whole assembly gave a uni- 
versal clap and shout of applause. 

“ I cannot be surprised at this from you, Ce- 
cilia,” said Leonora ; “ and do you then still love 
me as you used to do ?” 

O Leonora ! stop ! don’t praise me ; I don’t 
deserve this,” said she, turning to her loudly ap- 
plauding companions ; “ you will soon despise 
me — O Leonora, you will never forgive me ! — -I 
have deceived you — I have sold — ” 

At this instant Mrs. Villars appeared — the 


THE BRACELETS. 


59 


crowd divided — she had heard all that passed 
from her window. 

“ I applaud your generosity, Cecilia,” said she, 

but I am to tell you that in this instance it is un- 
successful ; you have it not in your power to give 
the prize to Leonora — it is yours — I have another 
vote to give you — ^you have forgotten Louisa.” 

“ Louisa ! but surely, ma’am, Louisa loves Leo- 
nora better than she does me !” 

“ She commissioned me, however,” said Mrs. 
Villars, “ to give you a red shell, and you will find 
it in this box.” 

Cecilia started, and turned as pale as death — 
it was the fatal box. 

Mrs. Villars produced another box — she opened 
it — it contained the Flora — “ And Louisa also de- 
sired me,” said she, “ to return you this Flora” 
— she put it into Cecilia’s hand — Cecilia trem- 
bled so that she could not hold it; Leonora 
caught it. 

“ O, madam ! O, Leonora ! ” exclaimed Cecilia ; 


60 


THE BRACELETS. 


“ now I have no hope left. I intended, I was just 
going to tell — ” 

“ Dear Cecilia,” said Leonora, “ you need not 
tell it me ; I know it already, and I forgive you 
with all my heart.” 

“ Yes, I can prove to you,” said Mrs. Villars, 
“ that Leonora has forgiven you : it is she who 
has given you the prize ; it was she who persua- 
ded Louisa to give you her vote. I went to see 
her a little while ago, and perceiving, by her coun- 
tenance, that something was the matter, 1 pressed 
her to tell me what it was. 

‘ Why, madam,’ said she, ‘ Leonora has made 
me promise to give my shell to Cecilia. Now I 
don’t love Cecilia half so well as I do Leonoij,; 
besides, I would not have Cecilia think I vote for 
her because she gave me a Flora.’ Whilst Loui- 
sa was speaking,” continued Mrs. Villars, “ I saw 
the silver box lying on the bed ; I took it up, and 
asked if it was not yours, and how she came 
by it. 


THE BRACELETS. 


61 


“ ‘ Indeed, madam,’ said Louisa, ‘ I could have 
been almost certain that it was Cecilia’s ; but Leo- 
nora gave it me, and she said that she bought it 
of the pedlar this morning. If any body else had 
told me so, I could not have believed them, be- 
cause I remembered the box so well ; but I can’t 
help believing Leonora.’ 

“‘But did you not ask Cecilia about it?’ 
said I. 

“ ‘ No, madam,’ replied Louisa, ‘ for Leonora 
forbade me.’ 

“I guessed her reason. ‘Well,’ said I, ‘give 
me the box, and I will carry your shell in it to 
Cecilia.’ 

“‘Then, madam,’ said she, ‘if I must give it 
her, pray do take the Flora, and return it to her 
first, that she may not think it is for that I do 
it.’” 

“ O, generous Leonora !” exclaimed Cecilia ; 
“ but indeed, Louisa, I cannot take your shell.” 

“ Then, dear Cecilia, accept of mine instead of 


G2 


THE BRACELETS. 


it ; you cannot refuse it — I only follow your ex- 
ample. As for the bracelet,” added Leonora, 
taking Cecilia’s hand, “ I assure you I don’t wish 
for it, and you do, and you deserve it.” 

“ No,” said Cecilia, “ indeed I do not deserve 
it ; next to you, surely, Louisa deserves it best.” 

“ Louisa ! O yes, Louisa,” exclaimed every 
body with one voice. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Villars, “ and let Ceciha 
carry the bracelet to her; she deserves that re- 
ward. For one fault I cannot forget all your 
merits, Cecilia ; nor, I am sure, will your com- 
panions.” 

“ Then, surely, not your best friend,” said Leo- 
nora, kissing her. 

Every body present was moved — they looked 
up to Leonora with respectful and affectionate 
admiration. 

“ O, Leonora, how I love you ! and how I wish 
to be like you !” exclaimed Cecilia ; ‘‘ to be as 
good, as generous !” 


THE BRACELETS. 


63 


“ Rather wish, Cecilia,” interrupted Mrs. Vil- 
lars, “ to be as just ; to be as strictly honourable, 
and as invariably consistent. 

“ Remember that many of our sex are capable 
of great efforts, of making what they call great 
sacrifices to virtue or to friendship ; but few treat 
their friends with habitual gentleness, or uniform- 
ly conduct themselves with prudence and good 
sense.” 






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4 








LAZY LAWRENCE. 


In the pleasant valley of Ashton, there lived an 
elderly woman of the name of Preston ; she had 
a small, neat cottage, and there was not a weed 
to be seen in her garden. It was upon her gar- 
den that she chiefly depended for support ; it 
consisted of strawberry-beds, and one small bor- 
der for flowers. The pinks and roses she tied up 
in nice nosegays, and sent either to Clifton or 
Bristol to be sold ; as to her strawberries, she did 
not send them to market, because it was the cus- 
tom for numbers of people to come from Clifton, 
in the summer time, to eat strawberries and 
cream, at the gardens in Ashton. 

Now the widow Preston was so obliging, ac- 


4 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


tive, and good-humored, that every one who came 
to see her was pleased. She lived happily in 
this manner for several years ; but, alas ! one 
autumn she fell sick, and during her illness every 
thing went wrong: her garden was neglected, her 
cow died, and all the money which she had saved 
was spent in paying for medicines. The winter 
passed away, while she was so weak that she 
could earn but little by her work ; and when the 
summer came, her rent was called for, and the 
rent was not ready in her little purse, as usual. 
She begged a few months’ delay, and they were 
granted to her ; but at the end of that time there 
was no resource but to sell her horse, Lightfoot. 
Now Lightfoot, though perhaps he had seen his 
best days, was a very great favourite: in his 
youth he had always carried the dame to market 
behind her husband; and it was now her little son 
Jem’s turn to ride him. It was Jem’s business 
to feed Lightfoot, and to take care of him ; a 
charge which he never neglected; for, besid s 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


5 


being a very good-natured, he was a very indus- 
trious boy. 

“ It will go near to break my Jem’s heart,” 
said Dame Preston to herself, as she sat one even- 
ing beside the fire stirring the embers, and con- 
sidering how she had best open the matter to her 
son, who stood opposite to her, eating a dry crust 
of bread, very heartily, for supper. 

“ Jem,” said the old woman, “ what, art hun- 

gry ?» 

“ That I am, brave and hungry !” 

Aye ! no wonder, you ’ve been brave hard at 
work— eh !” 

“ Brave hard ! I wish it was not so dark, mo- 
ther, that you might just step out and see the 
great bed I ’ve dug : I know you ’d say it was no 
bad day’s work — and oh, mother! I’ve good 
news ; farmer Truck will give us the giant straw- 
berries, and I am to go for ’em to-morrow morn- 
ing ; and I ’ll be back afore breakfast.” 

‘‘ God bless the boy, how he talks ! Four miles 


6 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


there, and four miles back again, afore break- 
fast.” 

“ Aye, upon Lightfoot, you know, mother, very 
easily ; mayn’t I ?” 

“ Aye, child.” 

“ Why do you sigh, mother ?” 

“ Finish thy supper, child.” 

“ I Ve done !” cried Jem, swallowing the last 
mouthful hastily, as if he thought he had been 
too long at supper. ‘‘And now for the great 
needle ; I must see and mend Lightfoot’ s bridle 
afore I go to bed.” 

To work he set, by the light of the fire, and 
the dame, having once more stirred it, began 
again with 

“ Jem, dear, does he go lame at all, now ?” 

“ What, Lightfoot ? O la, no, not he ! never 
was so well of his lameness in all his life — he ’s 
grown quite young again, I think ; and then he ’s 
so fat he can hardly wag.” 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


7 


“God bless him — that’s right; we must see, 
Jem, and keep him fat.” 

“ For what, mother ?” 

“ For Monday fortnight, at the fair : he ’s to 
be— sold !” 

“ Lightfoot !” cried Jem, and let the bridle fall 
from his hand ; “and will mother sell Lightfoot?” 

“ TFiY/, no ,* but I must^ Jem.” 

“ Must ; who says you must ? why must you, 
mother?” 

“ I must, I say, child ! — Why, must not I pay 
my debts honestly — and must not I pay my rent ? 
and was not it called for long and long ago ? and 
have not I had time ? and did not I promise to 
pay it for certain Monday fortnight ? and am not 
[ two guineas short? — and where am I to get 
two guineas ! So what signifies talking, child ?” 
said the widow, leaning her head upon her arm ; 
“ Lightfoot must go.” 

Jem was silent for a few minutes— “Two 
guineas ; that ’s a great, great deal — if I worked. 


8 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


and worked, and worked ever so hard, I could 
noways earn two guineas afore Monday fort- 
night ; could I, mother ?” 

“ Lord help thee, no ; not an’ work thyself to 
death.” 

“ But I could earn something, though, I say,” 
cried Jem, proudly ; ‘‘ and I will earn something 
— if it be ever so little, it will be something ; and 
I shall do my very best ; so I will.” 

“ That I am sure of, my child,” said his mo- 
ther, drawing him towards her and kissing him. 
“ You are always a good, industrious lad, that I 
will say, afore your face or behind your back ; 
but it won’t do now — Lightfoot must go.” 

Jem turned away, struggling to hide his tears, 
and went to bed, without saying a word more. 
But he knew that crying would do no good, so 
he presently wiped his eyes, and lay awake, con- 
sidering what he could possibly do to save the 
horse. “ If I get ever so little,” he still said to 
himself, “ it will be something ; and who knows 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


9 


but landlord might then wait a bit longer ? and 
we might make it all up in time ; for a penny a 
day might come to two guineas, in time.” But 
how to get the first penny, was the question. 
Then he recollected, that one day, when he had 
been sent to Clifton, to sell some flowers, he had 
seen an old woman, with a board beside her co- 
vered with various sparkling stones, which people 
stopped to look at as they passed, and he remem- 
bered that some people bought the stones ; one 
paid two-pence, another three-pence, and another 
six-pence for them ; and Jem heard her say that 
she got them amongst the neighbouring rocks ; 
so he thought that if he tried he might find some 
too, and sell them as she had done. 

Early in the morning he awaked, full of this 
scheme, jumped up, dressed himself, and having 
given one look at poor Lightfoot in his stable, set 
off to Clifton, in search of the old woman, to in- 
fpiire w^here she found her sparkling stones. But 
it was too early in the morning — the old woman 


10 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


was not at her seat ; so he turned back again 
disappointed. He did not waste his time waiting 
for her, but saddled and bridled Lightfoot, and 
went to farmer Truck’s for the giant strawberries. 
A great part of the morning w as spent in putting 
them into the ground ; and as soon as that was 
finished, he set out again in quest of the old wo- 
man, whom to his great joy he spied sitting at 
her corner of the street, with her board before 
her. But this old woman was deaf and cross; 
and when at last Jem made her hear his ques- 
tions, he could get no answer from her but that 
she found the fossils where he would never find 
any more. 

“ But can’t I look where you looked ?” 

“ Look away, nobody hinders you,” replied the 
old woman ; and these were the only words she 
would say. 

Jem was not, however, a boy to be easily dis- 
couraged; he went to the rocks and walked 
slowly along, looking at all the stones as ho 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


11 


passed. Presently he came to a place where a 
number of men were at work loosening some 
large rocks, and one amongst the workmen was 
stooping down, looking for something very ea- 
gerly; Jem ran up, and asked if he could help him, 

“Yes,” said the man, “you can. I’ve just 
dropped amongst this heap of rubbish a fine piece 
of crystal that I got to-day.” 

“What kind of a looking thing is it?” said Jem. 

“White, and like glass,” said the man, and^ 
went on working, whilst Jem looked very care- 
fully over the heap of rubbish for a great while. 

“ Come,” said the man, “ it ’s gone for ever ; 
don’t trouble yourself any more, my boy.” 

“ It ’s no trouble ; I ’ll look a little longer ; we 
will not give it up so soon,” said Jem ; and after 
he had looked a little longer, he found the piece 
of crystal. 

“ Thank’e,” said the man ; “ you are a fine 
little industrious fellow.” 

Jem, encouraged by the tone of voice in which 


12 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


the man spoke this, ventured to ask him the same 
questions which he had asked the old woman. 

“One good turn deserves another,” said the 
man. “We are going to dinner just now, and 
shall leave off work ; wait for me here, and I ’ll 
make it worth your while.” 

Jem waited ; and as he was very attentively 
observing how the workmen went on with their 
work, he heard somebody near him give a great 
yawn, and turning round, he saw stretched upon 
the grass, beside the river, a boy about his own 
age, whom he knew very well went in the village 
of Ashton by the name of Lazy Lawrence ; a 
name which he most justly deserved, for he never 
did any thing from morning to night ; he neither 
worked nor played, but sauntered or lounged 
about, restless and yawning. His father was an 
alehouse-keeper, and, being generally drunk, could 
take no care of his son ; so that Lazy Lawrence 
grew every day worse and worse. However, 
some of the neighbours said that he was a good- 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


13 


natured, poor fellow enough, and would never do 
any one harm but himself; whilst others, who 
were wiser, often shook their heads, and told him 
that idleness was the root of all evil. 

“ What, Lawrence !” cried Jem to him, when 
he saw him lying upon the grass, “ what ! are 
you asleep ?” 

“ Not quite.” 

“ Are you awake ?” 

“ Not quite.” 

“ What are you doing there ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ What are you thinking of?” 

Nothing.” 

“ What makes you lie there ?” 

‘‘ I don’t know — because I can’t find anybody 
to play with me to-day; will you come and play?” 

“ No, I can’t ; I ’m busy.” 

“ Busy,” cried Lawrence, stretching himself, 
“ you are always busy — I would not be you for 
the world, to have so much to do, always.” 


14 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


‘‘ And I,” said Jem, laughing, “ would not be 
you for the world, to have nothing to do.” 

So they parted, for the workman just then 
called Jem to follow him. He took him home to 
his own house, and showed him a parcel of fos> 
sils, which he had gathered he said on purpose to 
sell, but had never had time yet to sort them. 
He set about it, however, now, and having picked 
out those which he judged to be the best, he put 
them into a small basket, and gave them to Jem 
to sell, upon condition that he should bring him 
half of what he got. Jem, pleased to be em- 
ployed, was ready to agree to w hat the man pro- 
posed, provided his mother had no objection to 
it. When he went home to dinner, he told his 
mother his scheme, and she smiled and said he 
might do as he pleased, for she was not afraid of 
his being from home. 

“ You are not an idle boy,” said she, so there 
is little danger of your getting into any mischief.” 

Accordingly, Jem, that evening, took his stand, 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


15 


with his little basket, upon the bank of the river, 
just at the place where people land from a ferry- 
boat, and where the walk turns to the wells 
where numbers of people perpetually pass to drink 
the waters. He chose his place well, and waited 
almost all the evening, offering his fossils with 
great assiduity to every passenger ; but not one 
person bought any. 

“ Holla !” cried some sailors, who had just 
rowed a boat to land ; “ bear a hand here, will 
you, my little fellow ! and carry these parcels for 
us into yonder house.” 

Jem ran down immediately for the parcels, and 
did what he was asked to do so quickly, and with 
so much good will, that the master of the boat, 
took notice of him, and when he was going awa} 
stopped to.ask him what he had got in his littk : 
basket ; and when he saw that they were fossils . 
he immediately told Jem to follow him, for hc^ 
was going to carry some shells he had brought 


16 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


from abroad to a lady in the neighbourhood, who 
was making a grotto. 

“ She will very likely buy your stones into the 
bargain. Come along, my lad ; we can but try.” 

The lady lived but a very little way off, so that 
they were soon at her house. She was alone in 
her parlour, and was sorting a bundle of feathers 
of different colours. They lay on a sheet of 
pasteboard upon a window-seat, and it happened 
that as the sailor was bustling round the table to 
show off his shells, he knocked down the sheet 
of pasteboard, and scattered all the feathers. 
The lady looked very sorry, which Jem observ- 
ing, he took the opportunity, whilst she was busy 
looking over the sailor’s bag of shells, to gather 
together all the feathers, and sort them according 
to their different colours, as he had, seen them 
sorted when he came first into the room. 

“Where is the little boy you brought witl 
you ? I thought I saw him here just now.” 

“ And here I am, ma’am,” cried Jem, creeping 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


17 


from under the table with some few remaining 
feathers which he had picked from the carpet. 
“ I thought,” added he, pointing to the others, 1 
had better be doing something than standing idle, 
ma’am.” 

She smiled, and pleased with his activity and 
simplicity, began to ask him several questions , 
such as who he was, where he lived, and what 
employment he had, and how much a day he 
earned by gathering fossils. 

“ This is the first day I ever tried,” said Jem. 
“ I never sold any yet, and, if you don’t buy ’em 
now, ma’am, I ’m afraid nobody else will, for I 
have asked everybody else.” 

“ Come then,” said the lady, laughing, “ if that 
is the case, I think I had better buy them all.” 

So emptying all the fossils out of his basket, 
she put half a crown into it. Jem’s eyes sparkled 
with joy. “ Oh ! thank you, ma’am,” said he ; 

I will be sure and bring you as many more to- 
morrow.” 

F 


18 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


“ Yes, but I don’t promise you,” said she, “ to 
give half a crowm to-morrow.” 

“ But perhaps, though you don’t promise it., 
you will.” 

“ No,” said the lady, ‘‘ do not deceive your- 
self ; I assure you that I will not. That, instead 
of encouraging you to be industrious, would teach 
you to be idle.” 

Jem did not quite understand what she meant 
by this, but answered, “ I ’m sure I don’t wish to 
be idle. If you knew all, you ’d know I did not.” 

‘‘ How do you mean, if I knew all ?” 

“ Why, I mean, if you knew about Lightfoot.” 

“ Who is Lightfoot ?” 

“ Why, mammy’s horse,” added Jem, looking 
out of the window. “ I must make haste home 
and feed him, afore it get dark ; he ’ll wonder 
what ’s gone with me.” 

“ Let him wonder a few minutes longer,” said 
the lady, “ and tell me the rest of your story.” 

“ I ’ve no story, ma’am, to tell, but as how 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


19 


mammy says he must go to the fair, Monday 
fortnight, to be sold, if she can’t get the two 
guineas for her rent ; and I should be main sorry 
to part with him, for I love him, and he loves 
me ; so I ’ll work for him, I will, all I can. To 
be sure, as mammy says, I have no chance, such 
a little fellow as I am, of earning two guineas 
afore Monday fortnight.” 

“ But are you in earnest willing to work ?” said 
the lady ; “ you know there is a great deal of dif- 
ference between picking up a few stones, and 
working steadily every day and all day long.” 

“ But,” said Jem, “ I would work every day 
and all day long.” 

“ Then,” said the lady, “ I will give you work. 
Come here to-morrow morning, and my gardener 
will set you to weed the shrubberies, and I will 
pay you sixpence a day. Remember, you must 
be at the gates by six o’clock.” 

Jem bowed, thanked her, and went away. 

It was late in the evening, and he was impa- 


20 


LAZT LAWRENCE. 


tient to get home to feed Lightfoot, yet he recol 
lected that he had promised the man who had 
trusted him to sell the fossils, that he would brin^* 
him half of what he got for them ; so he thought 
that he had better go to him directly ; and aw ay 
he went, running along by the water-side aboul 
a quarter of a mile, till he came to the man’. 
house. He was just come home from work, an I 
was surprised when Jem showed him the hall 
crown, saying, “ Look what I got for the stones ; 
you are to have half you know.” 

“ No,” said the man, when he had heard his 
story, “ I shall not take half of that; it was given 
to you. I expected but a shilling at the most, and 
the half of that is but sixpence, and that I ’ll take . 
Wife, give the lad two shillings, and take thi.^^* 
half-crown.” 

So the wife opened an old glove, and took ou i 
two shillings — and the man, as she opened thr. 
glove, put in his fingers and took out a little silvei 
penny. “ There, he shall have that into the bai 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


21 


gain, for his honesty. Honesty is the best policy. 
There ’s a lucky penny for you. that I Ve kept 
ever since I can remember.” 

‘‘ Don’t you ever go to part with it, do you 
near ?” cried the woman. 

“ Let him do what he will with it, wife,” said 
ihe man. 

“ But,” argued the wife, ‘‘ another penny would 
do just as well to buy gingerbread ; and that ’s 
what it will go for.” 

“ No, that it shall not, I promise you,” said 
Tern ; and so he ran away home, fed Lightfoot, 
stroked him, went to bed, jumped up at five 
o'clock in the morning, and went singing to work, 
as gay as a lark. 

Four days he worked “ every day and all day 
long,” and the lady, every evening, when she 
c.ame out to walk in her gardens, looked at his 
work. At last she said to her gardener, ‘‘ This 
little boy works very hard.” 

‘‘ Never had so good a little boy about the 


22 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


grounds,” said the gardener ; “ he ’s always at 
his w^ork, let me come by when I will, and he has 
got twice as much done as another would do ; 
yes, twice as much, ma’am; for look here — he 
began at this here rose-bush, and now he ’s got 
to where you stand, ma’am ; and here is the day’s 
work that t’other boy, and he ’s three years older 
too, did to-day — I say measure Jem’s fairly, and 
it ’s twice as much, I ’m sure.” 

“ Well,” said the lady to her gardener, “ show 
me how much is a fair good day’s work for a 
boy of his age.” 

‘‘ Come at six o’clock, and go at six ? why, 
about this much, ma’am,” said the gardener, 
marking off a piece of the border with his spade. 

“ Then, little boy,” said the lady, “ so much 
shall be your task every day ; the gardener will 
mark it off for you ; and, w hen you ’ve done, the 
rest of the day you may do what you please.” 

Jem was extremely glad of this ; and the next 
lay he had finished his task by four o’clock ; so 




« <tr> > mr 







23 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 

he had all the rest of the evening to himself. Jem 
was as fond of play as any little boy could be, 
and when he was at it, played with all the eager- 
ness and gaiety imaginable; so, as soon, as ho 
had finished his task, fed Lightfoot, and put by 
the sixpence he had earned that day, he ran to 
ihe play-ground in the village, where he found a 
party of boys playing, and among them Lazy 
Lawrence, who indeed was not playing, but loung- 
ing upon a gate with his thumb in his mouth. 
The rest were playing at cricket. Jem joined 
them, and was the merriest and most active 
amongst them ; till at last, when quite out of 
breath with running, he was obliged to give up 
to rest himself, and sat down upon the stile, 
close to the gate on which Lazy Lawrence was 
swinging. 

“And why don’t you play, Lawrence?” said he. 

“ I ’m tired,” said Lawrence. 

“ Tired of what ?” 

“ I don’t know well what tires me ; grandino- 


24 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


ther says I ’m ill, and I must take something — 1 
don’t know what ails me.” 

“ Oh, puh ! take a good race, one, two, three, 
and away, and you ’ll find yourself as well as 
ever. Come, run — one, two, three, and away.” 

“ Ah, no, I can’t run indeed,” said he, hanging 
back heavily ; “ you know I can play all day long 
^ if I like it, so I don’t mind play as you do, who 
have only one hour for it.” 

‘‘ So much the worse for you. Come now, I ’m 
quite fresh again ; will you have one game at 
ball? do.” 

“ No, I tell you, I can’t ; I am tired as if I had 
been working all day long as hard as a horse.” 

‘‘ Ten times more,” said Jem ; “ for I have been 
working all day long as hard as a horse, and yet 
you see I ’m not a bit tired ; only a little out of 
breath just now.” 

“ That ’s very odd,” said Lawrence, and yawn- 
ed, for want of some better answer ; then taking 
out a handful of half-oence — “ See what I got from 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


25 


father to-day, because I asked him just at the 
right time, when he had drunk a glass or two ; 
then I can get anything I want of him. See, a 
penny, two-pence, three-pence, four-pence — 
there ’s eight-pence in all ; would you not be 
happy if you had eight-pence ?” 

“Why, I don’t know,” said Jem, laughing, “for 
you don’t seem happy, and you have eight-pence.” 

“ That does not signify, though I ’m sure you 
only say that because you envy me — you don’t 
know what it is to have eight-pence — ^you never 
had more than two-pence and three-pence at a 
time in all your life.” 

Jem smiled ; “ Oh, as to that,” said he, “ you 
are mistaken, for I have at this very time more 
than two-pence, three-pence, or eight-pence ei- 
ther ; I have — ^let me see : stones, two shillings ; 
then five days’ work, that ’s five six-pences, that ’s 
two shillings and six-pence, in all makes four 
shillings and six-pence, and my silver penny is 
four and seven-pence.” 


26 LAZY LAWRENCE. 

“ Four and seven-pence — ^you have not,” said 
Lawrence, roused so as absolutely to stand up- 
right ; “ four and seven-pence ! have you ? Show 
it me, and then I ’ll believe you.” 

“ Follow me, then,” cried Jem, “ and I ’ll soon 
make you believe me ; come.” 

“ Is it far ?” said Lawrence, following, half run- 
ning, half hobbling, till he came to the stable, 
where Jem showed him his treasure. 

“ And how did you come by it ? honestly ?” 

‘‘ Honestly ; to be sure I did ; I earned it all.” 

“ Lord bless me, earned it ! well, I ’ve a great 
mind to work ; but then it is . such hot weather ; 
besides, grandmother says I’m not strong enough 
yet for hard work ; and besides, I know how to 
coax daddy out of money when I want it, so I 
need not work. But four and seven-pence — let ’s 
see, what will you do with it all ?” 

“ That ’s a secret,” said Jem, looking great. 

“ I can guess ; I know what I ’d do with it if 
it was mine. First, I ’d buy my pockets full of 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


27 


gingerbread ; then I M buy never so many apples 
and nuts ; don’t you love nuts ? I ’d buy nuts 
enough to last me from this time to Christmas, 
and I ’d make little Newton crack ’em for me, for 
that ’s the worst of nuts, there ’s the trouble of 
cracking ’em.” 

“ Well, you never deserve to have a nut.” 

“ But you’ll give me some of yours?” said Law- 
rence, in a fawning tone, for he thought it easier 
to coax than to work. “ You ’ll give me some of 
y^our good things, won’t you ?” 

‘‘ I shall not have any of these good things.” 

“Then what will you do with all your money ?” 

“ Oh, I know very well what to do with it ; but, 
as I told you, that ’s a secret, and I shan’t tell it 
anybody. Come now, let ’s go back and play — 
their game ’s up, I dare say.” Lawrence went 
back with him, full of curiosity, and out of hu- 
mour with himself and his eight-pence. “ If I 
had four and seven-pence,” said he to himself, 
“ I certainly should be happy !” 


28 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


The next day, as usual, Jem jumped up before 
six o’clock and^went to his work, whilst Lazy Law- 
rence sauntered about without knowing what to 
do with himself. In the course of two days he 
laid out six-pence of his money in apples and gin- 
gerbread, and as long as these lasted, he found 
himself well received by his companions ; but at 
length the third day he spent his last half-penny, 
and when it was gone, unfortunately some nuts 
tempted him very much, but he had no money to 
pay for them ; so he ran home to coax his father, 
as he called it. When he got home, he heard his 
father talking very loud, and at first he thought 
he was drunk ; but when he opened the kitchen 
door, he saw he was not drunk, but angry. 

“You lazy dog !” cried he, turning suddenly up- 
on Lawrence, and gave him such a violent box on 
the ear as made the light flash from his eyes ; 
“ You lazy dog ! see what you have done for me, 
— ^look ! — look, look, I say !” Lawrence looked 
as soon as he came to the use of his senses, and 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


29 


with fear, amazement and remorse, beheld at least 
a dozen bottles burst, and the fine Worcestershire 
cider streaming over the floor. “ Now did not I 
order you three days ago to carry these bottles 
to the cellar ; and did not I charge you to wire 
the corks? answer me, you lazy rascal; did not I?” 

“ Yes,” said Lawrence, scratching his head. 

“ And why was it not done ? I ask you,” cried 
his father with renewed anger, as another bottle 
burst at the moment. ‘‘ What do you stand there 
for, you lazy brat ? why don’t you move ? I say — 
No, no,” catching hold of him, “ I believe you 
can’t move ; but I ’ll make you,” and he shook 
him, till Lawrence was so giddy he could not 
stand. “ What had you to think of? what had you 
to do all day long, that you could not carry m}^ 
cider, my Worcestershire cider, to the cellai, 
when I bade you ? But go, you ’ll never be good 
for anything, you are such a lazy rascal ; get out 
of my sight !” So saying, he pushed him out ol 
the house-door, and Lawrence sneaked off, seeing 


30 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


that this was no time to make his petition for 
half-pence. The next day he saw the nuts again, 
and wishing for them more than ever, went home 
in hopes that his father, as he said to himself, 
would be in a better humour. But the cider was 
still fresh in his recollection, and the moment Law - 
rence began to whisper the word half-penny in his 
ear, his father swore with a loud oath, “ I will not 
give you a half-penny, no not a farthing, for a 
month to come ; if you want money, go work 
for it ; I ’ve had enough of your laziness — go 
work !” At these terrible words Lawrence burst 
into tears, and going to the side of a ditch, sal 
down and cried for an hour ; and, when he had 
cried till he could cry no more, he exerted him- 
self so far as to empty his pockets, to see whethei 
there might not be one half-penny left ; and, to 
his great joy, in the farthest corner of his pocket 
one half-penny was found. With this he pro 
ceeded to the fruit woman’s stall. She was busy 
weighing out some plums, so he was obliged to 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


31 


wait ; and whilst he was waiting, he lieard some 
people near him talking and laughing very loud. 
The fruit woman’s stall was at the gate of an inn- 
yard ; and, peeping through the gate into this 
yard, Lawrence saw a postillion and stable-boy 
about his own size, playing at pitch farthing. 
He stood by watching them for a few minutes. 

“ I began with but one half-penny,” cried the sta- 
ble-boy with an oath, “ and now I have got two- 
pence!” added he, jingling the half-pence in his 
waistcoat pocket. Lawrence was moved at the 
sound, and said to himself, “ If I begin with one 
half-penny, I may end like him with having two- 
pence ; and it is easier to play at pitch-farthing 
than to work.” 

So he stepped forward, presenting his half- 
penny, offering to toss up with the stable-boy, 
who, after looking him full in the face, accepted 
the proposal, and threw his half-penny into the 
air — “ Head or tail ?” cried he. “ Head,” replied 
Lawrence, and it came up head. He seized the 


32 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


penny, surprised at his own success, and woulci 
have gone instantly to have laid it out in nuts 
but the stable-boy stopped him and tempted hini 
to throw again. This time he lost; he threw 
again and won ; and so he went on, sometimeh: 
losing, but most frequently winning, till half thc‘ 
morning was gone. At last, how ever, he chanced 
to win twice running, and finding himself mastei 
of three half-pence, said he would play no more. 
The stable-boy, grumbling, swore he would have 
his revenge another time, and Lawrence went 
and bought the nuts. “ It is a good thing,” said 
he to himself, “ to play at pitch-farthing ; the 
next time I want a half-penny, I ’ll not ask my 
father for it, nor go to work neither.” Satisfied 
with this resolution, he sat down to crack his nuts 
at his leisure, upon the horse-block, in the inn- 
yard. Here, whilst he ate, he overheard the con- 
versation of the stable-boys and postillions. At 
first their shocking oaths and loud wrangling s 
frightened and shocked him ; for Lawrence, though 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


33 


a lazy, had not yet learned to be a wicked boy. 
But, by degrees, he was accustomed to their 
swearing and quarrelling, and took a delight and 
interest in their disputes and battles. As this 
was an amusement which he could enjoy without 
any sort of exertion on his part, he soon grew so 
fond of it, that every day he returned to the stable- 
yard, and the horse-block became his constant 
seat. Here he found some relief from the in- 
supportable fatigue of doing nothing, and here 
hour after hour, with his elbows on his knees, and 
his head on his hands, he sat, the spectator of 
wickedness. Gaming, cheating, and lying soon 
became familiar to him ; and to complete his ruin, 
he formed a sudden and close intimacy with the 
stable-boy, with whom he at first began to game 
— a very bad boy. The consequences of this in- 
timacy we shall presently see. But it is now 
time to inquire what little Jem has been doing all 
this while. 

One day after he had finished his task, the 

n 


34 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


gardener asked him to stay a little while, to help 
him to carry some geranium pots into the hall. 
Jem, always active and obliging, readily stayed 
from play, and was carrying in a heavy flower- 
pot, when his mistress crossed the hall. “ What 
a terrible litter,” said she, “ you are making here ! 
— Why don’t you wipe your shoes upon the mat ?” 
Jem turned round to look for the mat, but he saw 
none. “ O,” said the lady, recollecting herself, “ I 
can’t blame you, for there is no mat.” — “ No, 
ma’am,” said the gardener, “ nor I don’t know 
when, if ever, the man will bring home those mats 
you bespoke, ma’am.” — “ I am very sorry to hear 
that,” said the lady; “ I wish we could find some- 
body who would do them, if he can’t — I should 
not care what sort of mats they were, so that one 
could wipe one’s feet on them.” Jem, as he 
was sweeping away the litter, when he heard 
these last words, said to himself, Perhaps I could 
make a mat.” And all the way home, as ho 
trudged along whistling, he was thinking over a 


lazy LAWRENCE. 


35 


scheme for making mats, which, however bold it 
may appear, he did not despair of executing with 
patience and industry. Many were the difficul- 
ties which his “ prophetic eye” foresaw ; but he 
felt within himself that spirit which spurs men on 
to great enterprises, and makes them “ trample 
on impossibilities.” 

He recollected in the first place, that he had 
seen Lazy Lawrence, whilst he lounged upon the 
gate, twist a bit of heath into different shapes, 
and he thought, that if he could find some way 
of plaiting heath firmly together, it would make 
a very pretty green, soft mat, which would do 
very well for one to wipe one’s shoes on. About 
a mile from his mother’s house, on the common 
which Jem rode over when he went to farmer 
Truck’s for the giant strawberries, he remember- 
ed to have seen a great quantity of this heath; 
and, as it was now only six o’clock in the evening, 
he knew that he should have time to feed Light- 
foot, stroke him, go to the common, return, and 


36 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


make one trial of his skill before he went to 
bed. 

Lightfoot carried him swiftly to the common, 
and there Jem gathered as much of the heath as 
he thought he should want. But what toil ! what 
time ! what pains did it cost him, before he could 
make any thing like a mat ! Twenty times he 
was ready to throw aside the heath, and give up 
his project, from impatience of repeated disap- 
pointments. But still he persevered. Nothing 
truly great can be accomplished without toil and 
time. Two hours he worked before he went to 
bed. All his play hours the next day he spent at 
his mat ; which in all, made five hours of fruitless 
attempts. The sixth, however, repaid him for the 
labours of the other five ; he conquered his grand 
difficulty of fastening the heath substantially to- 
gether ; and at length completely finished a mat, 
which far surpassed his most sanguine expectations. 
He was extremely happy— sung— danced round it— 
whistled — ^looked at it again and again, and could 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


37 


hardly leave off looking at it when it was time to 
go to bed. He laid it by his bed-side, that he 
might see it the moment he awoke in the morning. 

And now came the grand pleasure of carrying 
it to his mistress. She looked full as much sur- 
prised as he expected, when she saw it, and when 
she heard who made it. After having duly ad- 
mired it, she asked him how much he expected for 
his mat. “ Expect ! — ^nothing, ma’am,” said Jem ; 
“ I meant to give it you if you’d have it ; I did not 
mean to sell it. I made it at my play hours, and 
I was very happy making it ; and I ’m very glad 
too that you like it ; and if you please to keep it, 
ma’am — that ’s all.” ‘‘ But that ’s not all,” said 
the lady. ‘‘ Spend your time no more in weeding 
my garden ; you can employ yourself much better ; 
you shall have the reward of your ingenuity as 
well as of your industry. Make as many more such 
mats as you can, and I will take care and dispose 
of them for you.” “ Thank’e, ma’am,” said Jem, 
making his best bow, for he thought by the lady’s 


i 


38 LAZY LAWRENCE. 

looks that she meant to do him a favour, though 
he repeated to himself, “ Dispose of them ! what 
does that mean ?” 

The next day he went to work to make more 
mats, and he soon learned to make them so well 
and quickly, that he was surprised at his own 
success. In every one he made he found less dif- 
ficulty, so that, instead of making two, he could 
soon make four, in a day. In a fortnight he made 
eighteen. It was Saturday night when he finished, 
and he carried, at three journeys, his eighteen 
mats to his mistress’s house, piled them all up in 
the hall, and stood with his hat off, with a look 
of proud humility, beside the pile, waiting for his 
mistress’s appearance. Presently a folding door, 
at one end of the hall, opened, and he saw his 
mistress, with a great many gentlemen and ladies, 
rising from several tables. 

“ O ! there is my little boy and his mats,” cried 
the lady; and, followed by all the rest of the 
company, she came into the hall, Jem modestly 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


39 


retired whilst they looked at his mats ; but in a 
minute or two his mistress beckoned to him, and 
when he came into the middle of the circle, he saw 
that his pile of mats had disappeared. “Well,” 
said the lady, smiling, “ what do you see that 
makes you look so surprised ?” “ That all my 

mats are gone,” said Jem; “but you are very 
welcome.” “ Are we !” said the lady ; “ well, take 
up your hat and go home then, for you see it is 
getting late, and you know Lightfoot will wonder 
what ’s become of you.” Jem turned round to 
take up his hat, which he had left on the floor. 

But how his countenance changed ! the hat was 
heavy with shilhngs. Every one who had taken 
a mat had put in two shillings ; so that for the 
eighteen mats he had got thirty-six shillings. 
“ Thirty-six shillings !” said the lady ; “five and 
seven-pence I think you told me you had earned 
already — how much does that make ? I must add, 
I believe, one other six-pence to make out your 
two guineas.” “ Two guineas !” exclaimed Jem, 


40 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


now quite conquering his bashfulness, for at the 
moment he forgot where he was, and saw nobody 
that was by. “ Two guineas !” cried he, clapping 
his hands together — ‘‘ O Lightfoot ! — O mother !” 
Then recollecting himself, he saw his mistress, 
whom he now looked up to quite as a friend. 
“ Will you thank them all,” said he, scarcely dar- 
ing to glance his eye round upon the company, 
“ will you thank ’em ? for you know I don’t know 
how to thank ’em rightly.” Every body thought, 
however, that they had been thanked rightly. 

“ Now we won’t keep you any longer — only,” 
said his mistress, ‘‘ I have one thing to ask you, 
that I may be by when you show your treasure 
to your mother.” “ Come, then,” said Jem, “ come 
with me now.” “ Not now,” said the lady laugh- 
ing, ‘‘ but I will come to Ashton to-morrow even- 
ing; perhaps your mother can find me a few 
strawberries.” 

“That she will,” said Jem; “I’ll search the 
garden myself.” He now went home, but found 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


41 


it a great restraint to wait till to-morrow evening 
before he told his mother. To console himself 
he flew to the stable ; “ Lightfoot, you ’re not to 
be sold to-morrow ! poor fellow !” said he, patting 
him, and then could not refrain from counting out 
his money. Whilst he was intent upon this, Jem 
was startled by a noise at the door ; somebody 
was trying to pull up the latch. It opened, and 
there came in Lazy Lawrence, with a boy in a 
red jacket, who had a cock under his arm. They 
started when they got into the middle of the sta- 
ble, and when they saw Jem, who had been at 
first hidden behind the horse. 

‘‘We — ^we — we — came — ” stammered Lazy 
Lawrence — “ I mean, I came to — to — to — ” “To 
ask you,” continued the stable-boy in a bold tone, 
“ whether you will go with us to the cock-fight 
on Monday? See, I’ve a fine cock here, and 
Lawrence told me you were a great friend of his, 
so I came.” 

Lawrence now attempted to say something in 


42 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


praise of the pleasures of cock-fighting, and in 
recommendation of his new companion. But Jem 
looked at the stable-boy with dislike, and a sort 
of dread ; then turning his eyes upon the cock 
with a look of compassion, said in a low voice to 
Lawrence, ‘‘ Shall you like to stand by and see 
its eyes pecked out ?” — “ I don’t know,” said Law- 
rence, “ as to that ; but they say a cock-fight is 
a fine sight, and it ’s no more cruel in me to go 
than another ; and a great many go ; and I ’ve 
nothing else to do, so I shall go.” “ But I have 
something else to do,” said Jem, laughing, ‘‘ so I 
shall not go.” “ But,” continued Lawrence, “ you 
know Monday is the great Bristol fair, and one 
must be merry then, of all days in the year.” 
‘‘ One day in the year, sure there ’s no harm in 
being merry,” said the stable-boy. ‘‘ I hope not,” 
said Jem, “ for I know, for my part, I am merry 
every day in the year.” “ That ’s very odd,” 
said Lawrence ; “ but I know, for my part, I would 
not for all the world miss going to the fair, for at 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


43 


least it will be something to talk of for half a year 
after— come, you ’ll go, won’t you ?” “ No,” said 

Jem, still looldng as if he did not like to talk be- 
fore the ill-looking stranger. “ Then what will 
you do with all your money ?” ‘‘ I ’ll tell you 

about that another time,” whispered Jem ; “ and 
don’t you go to see that cock’s eyes pecked out ; 
it won’t make you merry, I ’m sure.” “ If I had 
anything else to divert me,” said Lawrence, hesi- 
tating and yawning. ‘‘ Come,” cried the stable- 
boy, seizing his stretching arm, “ come along,” 
cried he ; and pulling him away from Jem, upon 
whom he cast a look of extreme contempt, “ leave 
him alone ; he is not the sort. What a fool you 
are,” said he to Lawrence the moment he got him 
out of the stable; ‘‘you might have known he 
would not go, else we should soon have trimmed 
him out of his four and seven-pence. But how 
came you to talk of four and seven-pence ? I 
saw in the manger a hatful of silver.” “ Indeed !” 
exclaimed Lawrence. “Yes, indeed — but why 


44 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


did you stammer so when we first got in ? you 
had liked to have blown us all up.” “ I was so 
ashamed,” said Lawrence, hanging down his head. 

“ Ashamed ! But you must not talk of shame 
now. You are in for it, and I shan’t let you off; 
you owe us half-a-crown, recollect, and I must be 
paid to night, so see and get the money somehow 
or other.” After a considerable pause, he added, 
“ I ’ll answer for it he ’d never miss half-a-crown 
out of all that silver.” “ But to steal,” said Law- 
rence, drawing back with horror; “I never thought 
I should come to that — and from poor Jem too — 
the money that he has worked so hard for too.” 
“ But it is not stealing ; we don’t mean to steal, 
only to borrow it ; and if we win, as we certainly 
shall, at the cock-fight, pay it back again, and 
he’ll never know anything of the matter; and 
what harm will it do him ? Besides, what signi- 
fies talking, you can’t go to the cock-fight, or the 
fair either, if you don’t ; and I tell ye we don’t 
mean to steal it ; we ’ll pay it again on Monday 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


45 


night.” Lawrence made no reply, and they parted 
without his coming to any determination. 

Here let us pause in our story — we are almost 
afraid to go on — the rest is very shocking — our 
little readers will shudder as they read. But it is 
better that they should know the truth, and sec 
what the idle boy came to at last. 

In the dead of the night Lawrence heard some- 
body tap at his window. He knew well who it 
was, for this was the signal agreed upon between 
him and his wicked companion. He trembled at 
the thoughts of what he was about to do, and lay 
quite still, with his head under the bed-clothes, till 
he heard the second tap. Then he got up, dressed 
himself, and opened his window. It was almost 
even with the ground. His companion said to 
him in a hollow voice, “ Are you ready ?” He 
made no answer, but got out of the window and 
followed. 

When he got to the stable, a black cloud was 
just passing over the moon, and it was quite dark. 


46 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


“ Where are you ?” whispered Lawrence, groping 
about — ‘‘ where are you ? Speak to me.” “ I am 
here ; give me your hand.” Lawrence stretched 
out his hand. “ Is that your hand ?” said the 
wicked boy, as Lawrence laid hold of him ; ‘‘ how 
cold it felt!” “ Let us go back.” said Lawrence ; 
“ it is not time yet.” 

“ It is no time to go back,” replied the other, 
opening the door ; ‘‘ you ’ve gone too far now to 
go back ;” and he pushed Lawrence into the sta- 
ble. “Have you found it? — take care of the 
horse — have you done ? — what are you about ? — 
make haste, I hear a noise,” said the stable-boy, 
who watched at the door. “ I am feeling for the 
half-crovm, but I can’t find it.” “ Bring all to- 
gether.” He brought Jem’s broken flower-pot, 
with all the money in it, to the door. 

The black cloud was now passed over the moon, 
and the light shone full upon them. “ What do 
we stand here for ?” said the stable-boy, snatching 
the flower-pot out of Lawrence’s trembling hands, 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


47 


and pulling him away from the door. “ Good- 
ness !” cried Lawrence, “ you won’t take all — you 
said you ’d only take half-a-crown, and pay it back 
on Monday — ^you said you ’d only take half-a- 
crown !” — “ Hold your tongue,” replied the other, 
walking on, deaf to all remonstrances. ‘‘ If I am 
to be hanged ever, it shan’t be for half-a-crown.” 
Lawrence’s blood ran cold in his veins, and he felt 
as if all his hair stood on end. Not another word 
passed. 

His accomplice carried off the money, and 
Lawrence crept, with all the horrors of guilt upon 
him, to his restless bed. All night he was start- 
ing from frightful dreams ; or else, broad awake, 
he lay listening to every small noise, unable to 
stir, and scarcely daring to breathe — tormented 
by that most dreadful of all kinds of fear, that 
fear which is the constant companion of an evil 
conscience. He thought the morning would never 
come ; but when it Avas day, when he heard the 
biixis sing, and saw everything look cheerful as 


48 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


usual, he felt still more miserable. It was Sun- 
day morning, and the bell rang for church. All 
the children of the village, dressed in their Sunday 
clothes, innocent and gay, and little Jem, the best 
and gayest among them, went flocking by his door 
to church. “ Well, Lawrence,” said Jem, pulling 
his coat as he passed, and saw Lawrence leaning 
against his father’s door, “ what makes you look 
so black ?” “ I !” said Lawrence, starting, “ why 

do you say that I look black?” “Nay, then,” 
said Jem, “ you look white enough, now, if that 
will please you; for you’ve turned as pale as 
death.” “ Pale !” replied Lawrence, not knowing 
what he said ; and turned abruptly away, for he 
dared not stand another look of Jem’s : conscious 
that guilt was written in his face, he shunned 
every eye. He would now have given the world 
to have thrown off the load of guilt which lay 
upon his mind ; he longed to follow Jem, to fall 
upon his knees, and confess all. Dreading the 
moment when Jem should discover his loss. Law- 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


49 


rence dared not stay at home, and not knowing 
what to do, or where to go, he mechanically went 
to his old haunt at the stable-yard, and lurked 
thereabouts all day, with his accomplice, who 
tried in vain to quiet his fears and raise his 
spirits by talking of the next day’s cock-fight. — 
It was agreed that, as soon as the dusk of the 
evening came on, they should go together into a 
certain lonely field, and there divide their booty. 

In the meantime, Jem, when he returned from 
church, was very full of business, preparing for 
the reception of his mistress, of whose intended 
visit he had informed his mother ; and whilst she 
was arranging the kitchen and their little parlour, 
he ran to search the strawberry beds. ‘‘ Why, 
my Jem, how merry you are to-day !” said his 
mother, when he came in with the strawberries, 
and was jumping about the room playfully. “Now 
keep those spirits of yours, Jem, till you want 
’em, and don’t let it come upon you all at once. 
Have it in mind that to-morrow is fair-day, and 

D 


50 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


Lightfoot must go. I bade farmer Truck call 
for him to-night ; he said he ’d take him along 
with his own, and he ’ll be here just now — and 
then I know how it will be with you, Jem !” “ So 

do I!” cried Jem, swallowing his secret with 
great difficulty, and then tumbling head over heels 
four times running. A carriage passed the window 
and stopped at the door. Jem ran out ; it was 
his mistress. She came in smiling, and soon 
made the old woman smile too, by praising the 
neatness of everything in the house. But we 
shall pass over, however important they were 
deemed at the time, the praises of the strawber- 
ries, and of “ my grandmother’s china plate.” 
Another knock was heard at the door. 

“ Run, Jem,” said his mother ; “ I hope it ’s 
our milk- woman with cream for the lady.” No , 
it was farmer Truck come for Lightfoot. The 
old woman’s countenance fell. Fetch him out, 
dear,” said she, turning to her son ; but Jem was 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 51 

gone; he flew out to the stable the moment he 
saw the flap of farmer Truck’s great coat. 

• “ Sit ye down, farmer,” said the old woman, 
after they had waited about five minutes in ex- 
pectation of Jem’s return. “ You ’d best sit 
down, if the lady will give you leave, for he ’ll 
not hurry himself back again. My boy ’s a fool, 
madam, about that ’ere horse.” Trying to laugh, 
she added, “ I knew how Lightfoot and he w ould 
be loth enough to part — he won’t bring him out 
till the last minute ; so do sit ye down, neigh 
hour.” The farmer had scarcely sat down, when 
Jem, with a pale wild countenance, came back. 

What ’s the matter ?” said his mistress. “ God 
bless the boy,” said his mother, looking at him 
quite frightened, whilst he tried to speak, but 
could not. She went up to him, and then, lean- 
ing his head against her, he cried, “ It ’s gone ! 
it ’s all gone !” and bursting into tears, he sobbed 
as if his heart would break. 

“ What’s gone, love ?” said his mother. “ My 


52 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


two guineas — Lightfoot’s two guineas. I went 
to fetch ’em to give you, mammy; but the broken 
flower-pot that I put them in and all ’s gone—* 
quite gone !” repeated he, checking his sobs. 
“ I saw them safe last night, and was showing 
’em to Lightfoot ; and I was so glad to think I 
had earned ’em all myself; and thought how sur- 
prised you ’d look, and how glad you ’d be, and 
how you ’d kiss me, and all !” 

His mother listened to him with the greatest 
surprise, whilst his mistress stood in silence, 
looking first at the old woman, and then at Jem 
with a penetrating eye, as if she suspected the 
truth of his story, and was afraid of becoming the 
dupe of her own compassion. “ This is a very 
strange thing !” said she gravely. “ How came 
you to leave all your money in a broken flower- 
pot in the stable ? How came you not to give it 
to your mother to take care of?” — ‘‘ Why, don’^ 
you remember,” said Jem, looking up in the midst 
of his tears, why, don ’t you remember you your 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


53 


own self bade me not to tell her about it till you 
were by ?” — ‘‘ And did you not tell her ?” Nay, 
ask manuny,” said Jem, a little offended; and 
when afterwards the lady went on questioning 
him in a severe manner, as if she did not believe 
him, he at last made no answer. ‘‘ O, Jem ! Jem ! 
why don’t you speak to the lady ?” said his mo- 
ther. ‘‘ I have spoke, and spoke the truth,” said 
Jem proudly, ‘‘ and she did not believe me.” 

Still the lady, who had lived too long in the 
world to be without suspicion, maintained a cold 
manner, and determined to wait the event without 
interfering, saying only, she hoped the money 
would be found ; and advised Jem to have done 
crying. ‘‘ I have done,” said Jem. “ I shall cry 
no more.” And as he had the greatest command 
over himself, he actually did not shed another tear, 
not even when the farmer got up to go, saying 
he could wait no longer. Jem silently went to 
bring out Lightfoot. 

The lady now took her seat where she could 


54 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


see all that passed at the open parlour window. 
The old woman stood at the door, and several 
idle people of the village, who had gathered round 
the lady ’s carriage examining it, turned about to 
listen. In a minute or two Jem appeared, with 
a steady countenance, leading Lightfoot; and 
when he came up, without saying a word, put the 
bridle into farmer Truck ’s hand. — “ He has 
been a good horse !” said the farmer. “ He is a 
good horse !” cried Jem, and threw his arm over 
Lightfoot’s neck, hiding his own face as he 
leaned upon him. 

At this instant a party of milk- women went by ; 
and one of them, having set down her pail, came 
behind Jem, and gave him a pretty smart blow 
upon the back. He looked up — ‘‘ And don’t you 
know me ?” said she. “ I forget,” said Jem. “ I 
think I have seen your face before, but I forget.” 
‘‘ Do you so ? and you ’ll tell me just now,” said 
she, half opening her hand, “ that you forget who 
gave you this, and who charged you not to part 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


55 


with it too.” Here she quite opened her large 
hand, and on the palm of it appeared Jem’s silver 
penny. 

“ Where,” exclaimed Jem, seizing it, “ O where 
did you find it ? and have you — O tell, me have 
you got the rest of my money ?” 

‘‘ 1 don’t know nothing of your money — I don’t 
know what you would he at,” said the milk- woman. 
“But where, pray tell me, where did you find 
this ?” “ With them that you gave it to, I sup- 

pose,” said the milk-woman, turning away sud- 
denly to take up her milkpail. But now Jem’s 
mistress called to her through the window, begging 
her to stop, and joining in his entreaties to know 
how she came by the silver penny. 

“ Why, madam,” said she, taking up the corner 
of her apron, “ I came by it in an odd way too. 
You must know my Betty is sick, so I come with 
the milk myself, though it ’s not what I ’m used to ; 
for my Betty — ^you know my Betty,” said she, 
turning round to the old woman, “ my Betty serves 


56 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


you, and she ’s a tight and stirring lassy, ma’am, 
I can assure — ” “ Yes, I don’t doubt it,” said 

the lady impatiently ; “but about the silver penny?” 
“ Why, that ’s true. As I was coming along all 
alone, for the rest came around, and I came a 
short cut across yon field— No, you can’t see it, 
madam, where you stand, but if you were here — ” 
“ I see it, I know it,” said Jem, out of breath with 
anxiety. “ Well — ^well — rested my pail upon 
the stile, and sets me down awhile, and there 
comes out of the hedge — I don’t know well how, 
for they startled me so I ’d like to have thrown 
down my milk — two boys, one about the size of 
he,” said she, pointing to Jem, “ and one a matter 
taller, but ill-looking like, so I did not think to stir 
to make way for them, and they were like in a 
desperate hurry ; so, without waiting for the stile, 
one of ’em pulled at the gate, and when it would 
not open, for it was tied with a pretty stout cord, 
one of ’em whips out his knife and cuts it. Now 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 57 

liave you a knife about you, sir ?” continued the 
milk-woman to the farmer. 

He gave her his knife. 

“Here now, ma’am, just sticking as it were 
here, between the blade and the haft, was the 
silver penny. He took no notice, but when he 
opened it out it falls. Still he takes no heed, 
but cuts the cord as I said before, and through 
the gate they went, and out of sight in half a 
minute. I picks up the penny, for my heart mis- 
gave me that it was the very one husband had a 
long time, and had given against my voice to 
he,” pointing to Jem ; “ and I charged him not to 
part with it ; and, ma’am, when I looked I knew 
it by the mark, so I thought I would show it to 
Ae,” again pointing to Jem, “ and let him give it 
back to those it belongs to.” “ It belongs to me,’* 
said Jem ; “ I never gave it to any body but — ” 
“ But,” cried the farmer, “ those boys have robbed 
him — it is they who have all his money.” “ O, 


58 


LAZY LAWRENCE, 


which way did they go ?” cried Jem; “I’ll run 
after them.” 

“ No, no,” said the lady, calling to her servant ; 
and she desired him to take his horse and ride 
after them. “Ay,” added farmer Truck, “do 
you take the road and I ’ll take the field way, and 
I ’ll be bound we ’ll have ’em presently.” 

Whilst they were gone in pursuit of the thieves, 
the lady, who was now thoroughly convinced of 
Jem’s truth, desired her coachman would produce 
what she had ordered him to bring with him that 
evening. Out of the boot of the carriage the 
coachman immediately produced a new saddle and 
bridle. 

How Jem’s eyes sparkled when the saddle was 
thrown upon Lightfoot’s back ! “ Put it on your 

horse yourself, Jem,” said the lady ; “ it is yours.” 

Confused reports of Lightfoot’s splendid accou- 
trements, of the pursuit of the thieves, and of 
the fine and generous lady who was standing at 
dame Preston’s window, quickly spread through 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


59 


the village, and drew every body from their houses. 
They crowded round Jem to hear the story. The 
children especially, who were all fond of him, ex- 
pressed the strongest indignation against the 
thieves. Every eye was on the stretch ; and now 
some who had run down the lane came back 
shouting, ‘‘ Here they are ! they Ve got the 
thieves !” 

The footman on horseback carried one boy be- 
fore him, and the farmer, striding along, dragged 
another. The latter had on a red jacket, which 
Jem immediately recollected, and scarcely dared 
to lift his eyes to look at the boy on horseback* 
“ Good heavens !” said he to himself, “ it must be 
— ^yet surely it can’t be Lawrence !” The foot- 
man rode on as fast as the people would let him. 
The boy’s hat was slouched, and his head hung 
down, so that nobody could see his face. 

At this instant there was a disturbance in the 
crowd. A man who was half drunk pushed his 


60 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


way forwards, swearing that nobody should stop 
him ; that he had a right to see, and he would see. 
And so he did \ for forcing through all resistance, 
he staggered up to the footman just as he was 
lifting down the boy he had carried before him. 
“ I will — I tell you I will see the thief!” cried the 
drunken man, pushing up the boy’s hat. It was 
his own son. “ Lawrence !” exclaimed the wretch- 
ed father. The shock sobered him at once, and 
he hid his face in his hands. 

There was an awful silence. Lawrence fell on his 
knees, and, in a voice that could scarcely be heard, 
made a full confession of all the circumstances 
of his guilt. “ Such a young creature so wicked ! 
What could put such wickedness into your head ?” 
‘‘Bad company,” said Lawrence. “And how 
came you — ^what brought you into bad company?” 
“ I don’t know, except it was idleness.” While 
this was saying, the farmer was emptying Lazy 
Lawrence’s pockets, and when the money ap- 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


61 


peared, all his former companions in the village 
looked at each other with astonishment and ter- 
ror. Their parents grasped their little hands 
closer, and cried, “ Thank God ! he is not my son. 
How often, when he was little, we used, as he 
lounged about, to tell him that idleness was the 
root of all evil.” 

As for the hardened wretch, his accomplice, 
every one was impatient to have him sent to jail. 
He had put on a bold, insolent countenance, till he 
heard Lawrence’s confession- — till the money was 
found upon him, and he heard the milk-woman 
declare that she would swear to the silver penny 
which he had dropped. Then he turned pale, and 
betrayed the strongest signs of fear. ‘‘We must 
take him before the justice,” said the farmer, “ and 
he ’ll be lodged in Bristol jail.” “ O,” said Jem, 
springing forwards when Lawrence’s hands were 
going to be tied, “ let him go — ^won’t you — can’t 
you let him go ?” 


62 


LAZY LAWRENCE. 


‘‘ Yes, madam, for mercy’s sake,” said Jem’s 
mother to the lady ; “ think what a disgrace to 
his family to be sent to jail.” His father stood 
by, wringing his hands in an agony of despair. 

“ It ’s all my fault,” cried he. “ I brought him 
up in idleness^'* “But he’ll never be idle any 
more,” said Jem. “Won’t you speak for him, 
ma’am ?” “ Don’t ask the lady to speak for him,” 

said the farmer; “it’s better he should go to 
Bridewell now, than to the gallows by-and-by.” 

Nothing more was said, for every body felt the 
truth of the farmer’s speech. Lawrence was sent 
to Bridewell for a month, and the stable-boy was 
transported to Botany Bay. 

During Lawrence’s confinement, Jem often visit- 
ed him, and carried him such little presents as he 
could aflford to give ; and Jem could afford to be 
generous^ because he was industrious, Lawrence’s 
heart was touched by his kindness, and his ex- 
ample struck him so forcibly, that when his confine- 


LAZT LAWRENCE. 


63 


ment was ended, he resolved to set immediately 
to work, and, to the astonishment of all who knew 
him, soon became remarkable for industry; he 
was found early and late at his work, established 
a new character, and for ever lost the name of 
Lazy Lawrence. 



THE END. 


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LITTLE CHARLEY’S STORIES OF GREAT MEN. 
WASTE NOTj WANT NOT, BY MARIA EDGEWORTH. 
LITTLE CHARLEY’S GAMES AND SPORTS. 

LITTLE CHARLEY’S COUNTRY WALKS. 


C. G. HENDERSON & CO’S PUBLICATIONS. 13 


THRILLING STORIES 

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Large IGmo. 300 pages. 

Clotli binding. Price 75 cents. 


SHAKSPEARE LACONICS. 


A SELECTION OF NEARLY TWO THOUSAND PITHY EXTRACTS FROM 


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14 0 . G. HENDERSON & CO^S PUBLICATIONS. 


AN IMPORTANT AND VALUABLE WORK 

FOR ■ 

(15ucr|) 0tubott of tl)C 

PROFESSOR COLLOT’S 
New and Improved Standard 

FR£]\€H AT¥1> EAOL.18H 

AND 

ENGLISH AND FRENCH DICTIONARY. 

1 Volume 8vo. 1324; Pages* 

The Standard French and English Dictionary of the Nine- 
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TMs Dictionary is composed from the French Dictionaries of the 
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other Dictionaries, with the definition of all technical, scientific, 
and abstract terms ; and comprehending 

1. All the words in general use, comprising those that hare sprung 
out of modern discoveries and improvements. 

2 All the terms used in the navy, the sciences, the arts, the manu- 
factures and trade. 

3. The different acceptations of the words in their natural order. 

4. Examples of acceptations the most in use to elucidate the exact 
meaning of the words. 

5. The modification to which they are subject by the addition, 
of adjectives, adverbs, &c. 

6. All the idioms the most in use. 

7. The government of those prepositions which differ in both lan- 
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8. The notation of every word whose pronunciation is irregular. 

9. Grammatical observations on words presenting some difficulties. 

>6®“ The whole preceded by a complete treatise on pronunciation, 

and a table of all the irregular verbs ; and followed by two vocabu- 
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two languages, or whose pronunciation presents some difficulty. 


C. G. HENDERSON & CO'S PUBLICATIONS. 15 


PROFESSOR COLLOrS NEW DICTIONARY 
is an original work, not a reprint of some English 
or French lexicographer. In its compilation the 
best authorities have been consulted ' in both lan- 
guages, and the words more accurately defined than 
in any other work. Besides the introduction of 
about twelve thousand more words than are to be 
found in any other octavo French and English Dic- 
tionary. The author has also given a complete trea- 
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observations for many years in Paris, at the bar, in 
the pulpit, and on the stage, where the purest and 
most harmonious language can be heard at the pre- 
sent day. It also contains a large number of words, 
such as are met with in the most recent treatises 
on science and art, technical terms of late origin, and 
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together the work is far superior to the Dictionaries 
most generally in use by and known to the French 
student, such as Boyer, Meadow, Fleming and Tib- 
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the standard French and English Dictionary of the 
Nineteenth century. 


16 C. G. HENDERSON A CO’S PUBLICATIONS. 



A 


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\nTH A PEONUNCIATION OP THE GERMAN PART IN ENGLISH SOUNDS. 

850 pages. 18mo. Price $1.00. 

BY J. C. OELSCHLAGER, 

Professor of j^oHern SLanguoaes 

IN 

PHILADELPHIA, 

Formerly Professor of the English Language in the College 
of Quebec, author of a pronouncing English 
Dictionary for Germans, and a pro- 
nouncing German Reader. 




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